Here Comes the Sun
by gildedhippie
Summary: Vampires aren't the only creatures of this world. Especially in California.
1. Chapter 1

"So what brings you to Santa Carla?"

The curly bush of brilliant red shifts a twitch underneath the navy-blue ball cap, and a pale hand swipes it away from an equally-pale face, reddening at the edges from the direct question. "Uhm," she mumbles. She bites down on her bottom lip.

"My mother wanted to move here," she answers softly. "She says she's been here before, when she was my age." She bites down again on her lip, harder than before. That was too much.

"Really? In California? Did she say where?"

"Uhm." _Shit_. "No?"

"Oh." There's a strained moment of silence, occupied only by the quick rasp of the pen in her grip as it fills out the paper swiftly. She only hopes no one can see the subtle tremor of her hands. The silence is broken when a gentle hand lays on her useful one, interrupting her writing process. "Hey."

Green eyes flash up swiftly to the Man's dark ones, hidden away behind the white, and terribly bulky glasses.

The Man's voice is soft, gentle as the smile on his face. "There's no need to be nervous." He gives her hand a pat. "Just a simple application, it's not a test. Take your time."

A silent whoosh of a relieved breath slips out her nose, and she flashes a small, but genuine smile. "Thank you." Her head feels clearer now, even though her heart pounds a mile a minute. With the remaining time given to her in relative silence and peace, she quickly fills out the empty spaces in her application, handing it to the Tall Man of the Video Store.

She flashes another smile, looking up past thick, amber lashes. "Thank you for this opportunity, sir. Max," she corrects quickly, looking sheepish.

Max gives another brilliant smile at this girl. "Hell, you keep that charming attitude up, I'll hire you on the spot." Which brings a flattered sputter from her. His grin brightens.

"Tell you what, you come back here in about," he pauses to check the clock, "three hours, and I'll have your answer then."

The gawked look of the redhead lasts half a second, and the smile comes back in full force, a bright grin that brings out the round features of her face, making her irresistibly cute. "I will! Thank you!" And with a flurry of her corkscrew hair, the whitened twig of a girl flits out the door.

That cheerful smile still keeps onto the man's face as she leaves, and his darkened eyes watch her with a calculating gaze. The corner of his mouth twists into a loose smirk.


	2. Chapter 2

The Boardwalk was exactly as she suspected.

Loud, crowded, and reeking of rancid food, with equally-rancid people.

Granted, she was never one to absorb into a crowd. At least that's what she blames her fluttering nerves on. She does take pride in the fact that she can slip seamlessly past a squawking group of the birdbrains that flock along with each other to flaunt their feathers and flex their muscles.

Odd creatures.

Her stride may be smooth, but her exterior is never anything to ignore. With her frizzle frazzled head of thick, red, cork-screw curly hair and the moonshine white skin, she never gets a chance away from the bare-bones of an stare. It's very frustrating.

She has tried wardrobe changes, attitude adjustments, donning the black attire and nearly baring her teeth at any gawkers.

But nothing changes.

So she's keen on ignoring the tourists on this zoo's field trip for now.

Besides, despite the fascinating get-togethers the locals swarm together for, whether be near the rides or the food court, the air is warm, the moon shines bright and full above her, and for the first time in weeks, she walks with a straight spine, shoulders back, and head held high in her satisfaction.

Hopeful satisfaction, anyway. Gods willing she gain this job.

She reaches the bulk of the horde as she nears the more popular side of the area, near the shops and tattoo parlors, and she praises her foresight on bringing the battered ball cap this time around, along with the favored baby-blue jacket. The cap fits snugly on her head,bringing her hair to a more-frazzled state, but it provides a visor, and the weather is too warm for a sweater, but it is armor, and she is glad to have been prepared.

There's a shrill breeze that rattles in her ears, a sound too high on the spectrum to be caught by anything but a canine. But it manifests in a smattering of goosebumps up and down her arms and legs, and she nearly stumbles from the brunt force of the first pulse. She reaches up to snag down the visor of her ball cap to shield her eyes, forcing herself to walk blind against the crowd, thankfully dispersing as she treads along to the edge of the boardwalk.

A wet lump lodges itself in her throat, and her heart starts to pound. She swallows thickly and smothers it instantly, letting her cap go and shoving her hand back in the pocket of her jacket, keeping her shoulders back and jaw tense. Her hands flex unseen in her pockets, clenching them into fists hard enough to crack the knuckles.

A wisp of cold air trails along the back of her neck, and she jolts from it, green eyes blazing under her curls and canine teeth bared to the air.

Nothing.

She's standing in the middle of a crowd that seem determined to give her odd looks to her silent outburst.

The curse of paranoia never ends.

She quickly strides away from the scene, back into the horde. She rubs her arms through her jacket, trying to rub away the last of her gooseflesh. Something is certainly here, nothing natural. Pale throat works as she swallows again, picking at the stray threads inside her pockets, physically tucking herself farther in her worn armor.

Long and thin legs take her past the stores again, and she lifts her head slightly upward to really see the merchandise this area has to offer. Perhaps she needs new clothing. Jewelry? A piercing? Possibly, there are so many endless possibilities.

A flickering sign above an open shop catches her attention and stops her mid-step. Frog Comics. Frog Comics? Ruddy eyebrows furrow instantly, and she enters the shop without preamble.

The crisp scent of plastic and pot immediately sharpens itself inside her nose, and it scrunches at the onslaught. Have to love California.

Despite the clouds of skunk and ragged croons of some aging rock band on the overhead radio, it's not a bad place. Sure, the comics seem a bit outdated, but as she gently glides along the deserted aisles, green eyes quickly scanning the titles, she seems at peace, away from prying eyes.

Until that prickling feeling dots along the back of her neck again. She searches for it this time, unshy and evenly irritated. But irritation deflates when she catches the eyes of a child, barely past puberty with a haunted look in his eye. He has seen something terrible in his lifetime.

He is too young to have that look.

"Find what you're looking for?" he asks, more of a bark than a question. She belives she unnerved him.

She swallows before speaking. "Not yet. I don't really know what I want." Even in this secluded place, she keeps her voice silent, barely above a whisper.

He scoffs. "Figures. Comics aren't for girls. You wouldn't know what to do with it."

Little shit. Her mouth flattens to a hard line. "Spawn," she grunts, narrowing her eyes to thin slits. "Is that familiar?"

"What kinda girl knows about Spawn?" Another voice joins into the conversation, and she cranes her head to see another, another child. The same age as the first, she gathers. Facial features indicate possible relation.

"What's wrong with Spawn? It's a good story with decent art, I like Spawn," she protests.

The familial duo take a moment to stare, unashamed. The tips of her ears burn from the scrutiny, but she stands her ground, using her height and stature to tower over the two from their study, nearly a foot taller than them. Her hair is frizzed as usual, brushing past her shoulders and peeking out from her ball cap. A round nose sits in the middle of a round face, underneath a pair of wide, green eyes. Her pursed mouth keeps to itself, occasionally biting a full bottom lip. Her jaw is wide, strong, her nose sloping to a straight arch. Thick eyebrows match the ruddy color of thick eyelashes that brush against the top of her cheeks with each blink.

"You're new to Santa Carla," the first one says, adorned in a younger version of a G. I. Joe outfit, red bandana and all. It suits him.

"I am."

"Seen anything," the other one speaks, glossy eyes blank with indifference. "Unusual?" he sneers.

Seen? No. "What is considered 'unusual'?"

"What do you think is considered unusual?"

She blinks. She swallows to soothe a parched throat. "Nothing normal."

"No shit, sherlock." Before she can spit out a fond farewell, two comics are thrust into her hands, and she looks down in surprise. The latest edition of Spawn sat in her grasp, along with...

"Vampires?" She looks up, and both faces of the boys are grim, their eyes hard.

"Vampires. You'd be surprised what shows up in Santa Carla these days." Red Bandana points to the cheap, simply outdated horror comic. "Study it, it could save your life."

Surely her eyebrows have disappeared past the line of her ball cap by now.

"We're the Frog Brothers. I'm Edgar, he's Alan."

"Our number's on the back of the comic. Pray, that you never have to call us."

She's speechless. She swallows thickly. "Vampires."

"Vampires."

Why is it always California?


	3. Chapter 3

Three hours.

The Man, Max, said three hours nearly two hours ago.

And she spent that good amount of time with her nose buried in her comics.

She had managed to find a decent spot on the beach, seated onto a sandy and paint-chipped bench, with a clear view of the crisp, crashing waves of the salty ocean on her front. Now and then she lifts her head to gaze into the sea, and she gives a small smile at the sight.

She's here, in _California_, she can hardly believe it.

But based on her mother's nearly-constant praise of the populated area, she supposes it was only a matter of time, really.

Her mother is nearly her opposite, loud and outspoken in her proud ways as well as her own exterior. Bright and vibrant colors adorned her mother's form at every moment, where as the darker shades of blues and greens and purples would keep on hers. With her constant smile and cheerful demeanor, she loves her mother dearly. A fond smile appears on her face.

That smile nearly flattens when she focuses on the place, and time.

Vampires. Vampires? She glances down at the comic in her hands. Is she being tricked? She cannot deny, there is something here. Like the rotting undertone to a graveyard, where you can nearly smell the dust collecting on the old bones. A chill runs down her spine, and she makes a face.

Of course there would be something here. Of course she would feel it.

Since she was old enough to stand upright in her crib, she has always been able to feel something. Whether a brush of a hand or the soft whisper in her ear, she would pick up on it. Her mother says it's something that the women of her blood have gained, a gift granted from the Gods and Goddesses above. Her grandmother, may she rest in peace, was known as a healer, a medicine woman from the olden days of ghost speakers and fortune tellers. She was one of the best, before her untimely end in the mental institution. Her heart still pangs when she thinks of the old woman. No one deserves that end.

A mental dig brings her back to her state of body, and she snaps back into place, slipping the comic book closed and standing up, brushing the seat of her pants from the sandy bench.

The dig starts again, and she pauses. Her eyes narrow.

The whisper of wind brushes against her skin once more. The chill of death is at her neck, she grasps it frantically, rubbing away the cold.

Damn this place. She walks, off the beach and back onto the boardwalk, retracing her steps. Unable to shake away the cold piercing into her bones. She clacks her teeth together in her anxiety. Her steps quicken.

The groups of people along the path has diminished, and the trudges of her boots knocked against the wooden path noisily. She brings her jacket tighter around herself, reaching up to pull the cap of her hat down over her eyes, both comics clasped tightly in her white hand.

She walks, silent and expressionless, following the board markers to her destination. Her mind is blank, her eyes are hidden, and her stride is confident. She knows where she's going.

Her step falters only when a spike of pure ice sparks near the front of her path. She side-steps it immediately, automatically shifting her body away from the instinctual danger.

"Are you ignoring me?"

And like that, every muscle in her body screeches to a frozen halt. Her heart nearly stops in its ribcage.

She forces to exhale, but she cannot gain the control to take that needed inhale.

"Well?"

The voice. Dark. Mean.

Dangerous.

Shit.

"Dangerous," she murmurs, unmoving, keeping her cap tucked low against her eyes. She can feel the spike of cold wafting off this form in waves, and she brings her arms closer to herself, nearly wrapping them in her jacket. "I didn't realize I was a target," she says in a louder tone, voice firm against her normal whisper. She swallows against the lump in her throat.

The voice laughs, a rumbling chuckle that rattles her bones. Powerful. Very Dangerous.

"You made yourself a target when you picked up our signal." Our? There's a sound, a low clump against the wooden path, neatly abandoned in her hour of need. Footsteps. He's walking. He's walking closer. Her heartbeat speeds up.

"I didn't realize I was." It's almost a plea. She doesn't want to be a part of trouble, not now.

"Of course not." There's a brush of fabric against her clothed arm, and she blinks, staring down at a pair of boots? Combat boots. Black pants. A pocket chain? The bottom of a black trenchcoat. She dares to look up, slowly evaluating her possible escape route or battle formation.

Build is solid, balanced. Straight stance equals pride, confidence. It would be a hell of a fight.

She finishes her scope to crane her head upwards. Height-wise, he's taller than her. No one is taller than her. She bypasses his eyes to study his face.

He's boyish, that throws her off. The baby fat still clinging to his cheeks belies the crow's feet creased at the corners of his eyes, but she blinks and finds that there are no crow's feet. His hair is what strikes her next, bleached white and shaved into a mohawk? Would that be considered a mohawk?

His face moves, and she stares into his eyes while he smirks down at her.

And at this point, she feels terribly small, and terribly weak.

The cold is threatening. Like the dust of old bones.

"What are you," the exhale nearly makes her head spin, and she's tempted to take a step back. But she sees, that would only spark his next move. Her eyes widen. "I'm being hunted."

"Yes." He seems impressed, the slight tilt of his eyebrow the only sign.

"Why."

"Food." _Shit_. "And entertainment."

"_Entertainment_?" She's appalled. "Do you have nothing better to do?" She bites down on her bottom lip hard, cursing her quick mouth. He is amused now.

"Better than this? No, not yet. You're the main course tonight." He grins, all sharp teeth and ill intent.

There's bile in her throat.

She swallows it down.

She inhales, then exhales. Then inhales once more, straightening her stance and holding her head high, gazing into this creature's eyes with startling clarity.

"I am sorry, but I'm not on the menu tonight." There's a smile and a laugh caught in the blond creature's throat, but she raises her right hand, and presses her thumb flat against the middle of his forehead, between the flash of amber eyes.

There's a look of amused confusion on his face, before a spark of light pricks from the surface of her thumb. It's face pulls into a pained grimace, before freezing in place.

She removes her thumb, taking her step back.

The creature's face has pulled into a ferocious maw, needle-thin fangs pointed down to it's bottom lip and face curled back into a look of fury. Animalisc eyes glare down at her, unmoving from the spark of light and trapped in a frozen body.

"It won't last forever," she murmurs, staring into the feral face with a look of thinly-veiled fascination. "It will wear off when the sun rises." She nods to herself, bringing herself to her full height.

"It would be worse for you if this is repeated. Do not try this again."

She nods once more, before spinning on her heel and turning away, leaving the frozen figure to the shadows.

The pinprick of ice turns into a ghostly shredding of her skin as she walks, but she does not look back.


	4. Chapter 4

Completely forgetting Max's promise and her possible career, she fled home immediately after her close encounter. Her pace was quick and practiced, and she did not stop for a moment until she was safely inside her home with her back pressed against the door.

She clutches the front of her shirt frantically, wild-eyed and gulping in lungfuls of air to calm the rapid beat of her heart. She had seen her life flash before that thing's eyes, she was to die this night if she were another. She buries her face in her hands, the crumpled comics slipping from her grasp and to the floor. She slides against the door, joining them shortly after in a folded heap.

She offers a silent prayer to her Gods, even crossing herself for good measure. She has seen death this night. And it wears the face of a goddamn mohawk'd biker.

"He said 'our'." Her mumble is smothered into her hands. "'Our signal'. A signal, he's communicating." Her gaunt face pulls away from her hands, eyes sunken into darken circles. Her lips tremble from her whisper:

"_There's more than one_."

They need to leave. She needs to talk to her mother and _leave_.

A throaty huff nearly shoots her out of her skin, and her head whips up at the sound.

She sinks back into her sitting spot at the sight of her large, and fully brushed dog. The wrinkled face of her Saint Bernard manages to soothe her frantic heart, and she gives a smile at the old dog, perched against the opening of her living room like the good guard dog he is.

He woofs at her, pink tongue lolling from his mouth.

"Rufus." The dog stands, nails clacking against the wooden floor and into her open arms, where he nearly throws himself in her lap. "Oof. You're getting too heavy to keep doing that, buddy." The dog just stares up at her, loving the attention she gives to his face and neck, leaning his head in her soothing hands.

She smiles down at the old dog, swallowing down her fear and resting her head against the door. Her eyes slip closed. She sinks back into the door, into her home.

This is my home now, she thinks. Mom wanted to come here so badly, she must have known there was something here. Is this a test?

She snorts, grinning. "Some test. This beats college any day."

She relaxes once more, idly stroking the snoring pup at her lap. Against her will, her mind starts to drift away from her home, to the moon that hangs overhead and protects all in Her sight.

* * *

"Franny?" The baby-high voice pierces through her dream haze quicker than any alarm. Her eyes snap open, bloodshot from exhaustion. She blinks rapidly, staring up at the orange and daisy-speckled figure of her Mother.

The woman, nearing her forties and still spry as any bird, wears a smile, even though she carries the creases of concern on her tanned face. "Franny, did you stay here all night?"

Night? The sweet tune of a nearby bird trills her back into place, and she can see the cracks of daylight seeping through the slits of the windows. "I guess so," she mumbles, straightening from the door, giving a low moan of sleep as her back stretches and pops. Her hands come up, and her mother takes her hands to help her up. The lack of weight from Rufus means he must be outside.

"Franny, that's not healthy. Look at you, you're going to be stiff all day." She pats her daughter on the cheek, fixing a few stray hairs from her face. "A glass of orange juice and some toast for you. No buts."

Francis smiles despite herself. "Yes, Mom." She follows her into the kitchen.

The orange juice does wonders, and she sits at the kitchen table, watching her mother bustle from the kitchen to the living room, nibbling on a piece of toast while simultaneously watering the many plants clustered inside their cabin. Funny, she thinks, this place is supposed to be a summer cabin, not an actual house. But if there's anyone in this world that can make it into a home, it's Mom.

"I went to the Boardwalk last night," she starts, idly sipping her juice.

"Really? Did you like it? I know, it's a bit more crowded than what it used to be, but there should still be plenty of places to 'hang' with your friends." Her mother flashes a brilliant smile, returning to her flourishing bouquet atop the windowsills.

She grins automatically, face and body somewhat tense, the events of last night still churning in her gut. She sips her juice. "There's something here." There. It's out.

Her mother pauses in her watering, reaching out to handle one of the delicate leaves instead. "What do you mean?"

"I was told there are," she grimaces. "Vampires, here. In Santa Carla."

Now her mother faces her, a delicate frown on her round features. "Vampires?" Her hip cocks out and she places a hand on it. "Who in the world told you that?"

"Two kids, actually." Her mouth just keeps moving, she lets it. "They confronted me in a comic store and handed me this." She brings up one of the comics in her hand, the cheesy cartoon the first thing her mother's eyes notice.

"Oh, honey, I think they're playing a nasty trick."

"That's what I thought at first, too." Now she downs the rest of her juice, welcoming the burn against her dry throat. Her lips purse together. "I saw someone, some_thing_, down by the beach. Looked like a man, but." She shakes her head in a negative, finally catching eyes with her mother. The woman looks tense, focused on her story with narrow eyes. "Mom, I had to use magic on him to get away. It wasn't human."

There's a moment of silent, her mother studying her face studiously, trying to detect any sort of lie that may be hidden in her face. She swallows, wishing she had more to drink.

"Are you alright?" her mother asks suddenly, blinking back that concern on her face. She forgoes the plants to stand next to her child, her daughter, placing a gentle hand on her cheek and studying her intently. "Were you harmed? Do you need me for anything?" Her calm tone belies the rabbit-frantic of her heart in her ribcage.

Franny smiles softly, placing her hand over her mother's. "I'm okay, I promise. Just got a little scared, is all." A little, hah. "Mom, you need to be careful at night, if they are what they are. He made a slip up, I think there's more than one."

Her mother's lips purse into a fine line. "There may be. And the same goes for you, young lady, you are not to leave this house without your keys and amulets, do you understand?"

She bobs her head in a nod. "Of course. I keep my chalk in my back pocket and my mace in my front, as always."

"Good." Her mother places a kiss to her crown, patting her cheek again.


	5. Chapter 5

Round two.

Gods and Goddesses protect her stride as she steps foot upon the Boardwalk once more, the click and clack of the multiple stones and amulets ringed round her neck that keeps a spring to her step and a rise to her chin.

Her cap and jacket are gone now, stowed away in her closet, and replaced with a simple white blouse, and a flowing skirt the same shade as her eyes. Although, she keeps her old boots firmly on her feet.

There's a spark in her eyes that sharpens her features and makes her seem unapproachable. Which, truly, is a blessing in itself.

Although her stomach ties and reties itself in tight knots, she keeps her stride straight and forward. But her nervousness makes her pace quick as she follows the mental trail back onto the Video Store.

She only hopes Max is as patient as he is kind.

If he really is kind.

She bites on her bottom lip.

The ever-present chill that sharpened itself at her skin is absent this night, which she considers a blessing. But in her mind's eye, she doesn't see last night's meeting as the last.

But that only makes her stomach rumble from anxieties.

And she swallows it down, forcing her eyes straight and her shoulders back.

Remember your Mother's words.

Keep your chin up, keep your back straight. You are a Goddess, let them know exactly who they are dealing with.

She walks into the store.

There's a few stragglers in the store, mostly half-dressed stoners perusing the aisles or staring up into the TV wall in an open-mouthed daze. She huffs at the sight.

"There you are," Max calls, sliding away from the front desk to face her outright. "I thought you changed your mind."

There's a reddening in her face she's sure must show to prying eyes, and she gives a guilty grin. "Hi, I'm sorry. I got into a..."

What can she say? "A bit of trouble last night, I had to go home." She crosses her arms over her torso tightly. "I'm sorry, Max, it startled me so bad, I forgot all about the time."

"Trouble?" There's a prick of concern she sees past his glasses. "What kind of trouble, are you alright?"

She waves his concern with a small smile. "Nothing too important." Hardly. "One of the bikers followed me to the beach, I had to get him to leave me alone."

"Bikers?" His eyes narrow. He stares at her a long moment. Does he know them? He hums. "But you are alright now, aren't you?"

"Of course, sir. Just gave me a bit of a scare, really. I'm not used to attention." Not exactly a lie.

"I find that hard to believe." Now he grins. "Well, as long as you're alright, that's all that matters. So." He claps his hands together, staring down at her with a raised brow. "Are you ready to get started?"

Wait. "I'm hired?"

"Sure, you seem a nice enough girl, and we could always use more help. You're hired."

The grin grows on her face until it's almost blinding, bringing back her cute appearance. "Thank you, Max! You won't regret this!"

* * *

It was easier than she originally thought, working. Being in public. Giving smiles and good cheer to customers. She blames the atmosphere to the area, but in general, she's enjoying her few hours as a receptionist for a video store.

Granted, nothing could ever beat her life at the plant farm, but she thinks she could make a decent living this way.

If only that god's damned chill would quit nipping at her bare arms.

It was a mistake to go without her jacket, she knows that now, and she keeps the blood flowing by rubbing her upper arms, and volunteering to move heavy boxes of new videos whenever she gets the chance.

"Look at you, not even a day in and already on your way to becoming my best employee," quips Max the first time she offers, and that brings out a happy laugh, thankfully breaking the tension in her body.

She is in the middle of rearranging the new shipment of some new horror movies, about vampires, when she feels the pinprick at the back of her neck.

Great. Fantastic. Goddamn vampires, why _vampires_. She rubs her neck, frowning heavily at the cheap art of the movie cover. A breeze wraps around her arms, and she shudders at the cold.

She vaguely hears the bell of the door opening, and the surprising sound of Thorn, Max's hound, snarling low in his throat. The growl gives the hair on her neck to rise.

The animal senses it.

She cranes her head over her shoulder, barely peeking past her thick curls.

Familiar white hair and a black outfit blur into the picture. She looks back to the movie cover.

The blond waif being ripped into threads seems to mock her.

Shit.

She reaches up to grasp her chain of amulets tightly, reverently. And her eyes harden.

Back straight. Chin high.

She places the last of the movies onto the shelves, reaching to take the empty box and spinning on her heel. And faces the creature that cornered her on the beach, not two steps away from her.

Her eyes are flinty. Let them know _exactly_ who they are dealing with.

"You again."

He tilts his head at her acknowledgment. There's a heavy, hard look in his eyes, and a sardonic smile graces his lips. She can catch two more in her peripheral, moving around the store, with the same ice chill seeping from their very pores. There's another one near the door, a lookout?

"Hunting?" she spits, keeping her voice a low murmur.

He nods. "Yes."

"Again?"

"Every night."

There is a stare down. His posture is relaxed, but firm, arms crossed in front of a built torso and unwavering in his gaze into her eyes. His smirk is still present, but small, and she can see in the creases of his eyes and mouth, he is unamused.

"I told you before." _Do not try this again._ "Would you like another lesson?"

His eyes darken, and his upper lip curls in a sneer.

"It was unexpected, what you did. I'll give you that." He takes a step forward, thoroughly crowding into her personal space. His eyes are pools of black, a void.

Death.

"But if you think luck will help you again, you're in for a real problem."

Bile bubbles in her throat, and she viciously swallows it down, nearly baring her teeth at this creature, eyes blazing like wild fire.

"If you think you'll take me so easily, **_beast_**, I suggest you rethink your strategy." She exhales through her nose, and sweat beads on her brow and upper lip from the sheer rise of her body temperature. She is now thoroughly upset.

There's a ripple in the auras, like the crashing of the sea on the beach, and she feels the lesser pinpricks of the others around the store. She's hot, she's sweating, _she will light this vermin on fire_.

The creature stares her down, ice against fire, and at the back of her mind, the tickle of the lesser sparks move, closer to them.

"Pack hunting," she murmurs, and the blonde's smirk blooms into a feral smile.

"Hey!"

At like the chime of a bell, the moment is broken. She sidesteps the beast, taking her empty box and walking straight into the back room, keeping her eyes in front of her.

Placing the box on the empty table, she slaps her hands on the surface, leaning forward and keeping her eyes shut tight, fighting the mess of spins in her head and stomach, trying to keep down her lunch.

Praise the Gods for Max.

* * *

"Franny?" There's a heavy weight against her shoulder, and she jolts up and away from it, nearly knocking the table off it's thin legs in her frantic haste to get away.

"Hey, whoa!" Panicked eyes flash up to the familiar white glasses, and the straight edge of her shoulders soften a fraction. He holds both hands up in the universal sign of surrender. "Take it easy, it's just me."

She's still sweating, damp curls clinging to her forehead and flushed cheeks, eyes wild and bright, limbs tense and shaking and fists clenched and ready to fight.

"I'm sorry," she grits out, taking a few, heavy breaths. "It's adrenaline, I'm sorry. Are they still in the store?" She needs to know.

"...no, they're gone. I told them to leave." There's a suspicious look in his eyes over his surprised face. He lowers his hands. "They really scared you." It's not a question.

Scared? Yes. "Yeah," she whispers, leaning forward to press her hands on the table top once more, breathing in through her nose, and breathing out through her mouth, closing her eyes. She says nothing more.

Max says nothing, and she uses this time to focus on her physical issues, like how it feels as if her heart's about to burst through her chest, or how her lungs are far too small.

"Listen," he finally speaks, and her head tilts up to watch him through damp curls. It's amazing how often she looks to this man for help, personal or otherwise. It's embarrassing.

"I'll talk to them later, to make sure they don't harass you again. Can't have a good employee scared off from bad customers." He smiles. "As for you." His tone turns gentle, and she still cringes at the possible punishment. What a bad rep for a first day.

"Why don't you take the rest of the night off. You've already proven you're a good worker, you can punch in again tomorrow morning."

Her brain screams at her for letting her guard down, but the terse line of her shoulders relaxes fully, not-so-secretly relieved to not receive a verbal lashing.

"Max, are you sure?" _Are you sure you can stop them?_ "I'm not normally like this." She's starting to tip-toe on the edge of frantic, that's never a good sign.

Stop it, Francis, you're a grown woman.

He must have spotted the high tone. "Absolutely." He cocks a brow. "I'll see you tomorrow, alright?" And with a nod, he turns and walks out of the room, mercifully closing the door behind him.

She stares at it for a decent amount of time. Then resolutely smacks her hand against her face, squeezing her eyes tight.

She's half-tempted to persuade her Mother to move.


	6. Chapter 6

A month goes by.

Thankfully, surprisingly, Max keeps his word.

For that long, long month, she is left alone.

No whispers in her ear, no wisps of breath at the back of her neck, she is able to wear sleeveless blouses and tanks without the fear of the ice nipping at her skin.

Her clothing loses layers, cap and jacket fading away into ankle skirts and spaghetti straps, combat boots for sandal straps. Although, she still keeps her face bare of any cosmetics, for comfort instead of style.

She flits about the Boardwalk under the safety of the burning sun, keeping her bottles of sunblock in her bag to protect sensitive skin. In the crisp, summer air, she discovers the nooks and crannies of the path, ducking inside all opened buildings, from book stores to jewelry stands.

At night, her pace is quicker, but still firm, and she spends her time at Max's store, fulfilling her job and gaining muscle strength from moving the heavier boxes of VHS tapes and television equipment. Her bone-thin frame soon fills into a jogger's figure, and her twig arms fill out accordingly, thank the Gods and Goddesses.

It is near the end of the second week when the apprehension in her emerald eyes finally fades away.

Her smiles widen more easily, her eyes sparkle nearly everyday, filled with soft laughter and good humor.

On the weekends, her and her mother take their time on the beach, spending their mornings sunbathing and taking their lunches in the many breakfast bars along the wooden path, keeping the large hound of Rufus on a thick leash. Her white skin starts to bronze from the ever-exposure to the sun, and her hair takes on a golden sheen to it's maroon shade.

And thankfully, she finally feels happy in Santa Carla.

* * *

"Franny."

Francis' eyes flick from Randal Flag's dialogue to gaze into the chocolate eyes of her coworker, and friend. The heavy cover of one of the horror novels she picked up from the book store remains locked in her grasp in her lap, the woman's figure resting in the unoccupied chair in the Video Store's breakroom, sandal'd feet propped onto the table.

She smiles up at the woman. "Hi Maria."

"Hi, pretty lady. You off shift?"

"I am, I'm reading. What's on your mind?"

"Do you have anything planned tonight?"

Her eyes narrow playfully. "I might, what do you say?"

"I say I think you could come with me to hang out on the Boardwalk. And go on all the rides until we get sick."

The bed of curls atop Franny's head fly as she throws her head in a laugh. "I'd love to!"

* * *

"Roller coaster!" Maria shouts, once again grabbing her hand before she takes off into a stride. Francis laughs happily, following her friend with what she hopes is the same about of exuberance.

"Honey, take it easy, you're going to throw up at this rate."

"Worth it." She laughs again.

The rush of the coaster manages to smuggle any other of the five senses, herself too caught up in the act of having fun to notice it at first: a cold chill that breezes past her bare arms.

She shudders, rubbing the goose bump-speckled skin, stumbling onto the ramp off the ride. She mentally berates herself for forgetting her jacket.

"Franny we're getting cotton candy." Her hand is held and she's once again on a following adventure.

Not that it bothers her, of course. Maria is friend, sister-kin, she's allowed to lead her.

The candy stand is surprisingly bare by the time the two arrive, and both girls have a stick of the blue and pink treat, walking side-by-side along the boardwalk, being mindful of the other jostling groups.

"I think Max is planning to make you Employee of the Month." Franny hacks at the candy in her throat.

"Really! I've only been here the month, that's impossible."

"Impossible, she says, when is anything every impossible for Miss Francis?" Maria crows, popping a finger of blue cotton in her smirking mouth.

"Being Employee of the Month, that's impossible. I've never been Employee of the Month, anywhere."

"Well, girl, you're gonna be one here, Max loves you. You should hear him before you punch in, he calls you his 'ray of sunshine'." There's shit-eating grin behind Maria's cotton ball.

She rubs her face, somewhat uplifted at the possible outcome. "_Seriously_?"

"Seriously. Consider tonight like a celebration."

Franny smiles fondly, nudging her elbow against her friend.

And she shivers a moment later as the breeze billows past her once more.

"You cold?"

"Yeah, it's weird. It's not that cold out." The air was almost sticky in it's humidity.

There's silence from Francis as she thinks. Cold air. Her pace slows, but moves. She counts the days back, back to that moment in the store, a month ago today.

Today. Her heart lodges in her throat. Now, remember yourself, Francis.

Keep a steady stride. Keep her spine straight.

Hold your chin up high.

She keeps her pace, calm and sure, keeping up with her friend and occasionally taking a bit of candy fluff to pop in her mouth.

When the time comes, she will act. If she needs to. She grits her teeth at another icy breeze.

Hopefully she won't need to.

"Excuse me."

SHIT.

Both heads turn, gazing onto the form of the white-haired biker, donned in in his black coat and black shirts and black everything, he's trying too hard. Franny mentally snerks. The creature stands tall in front of the two women, towering over both. He's smirking once more.

Unafraid.

"Again," she grunts, back straight and limbs tense, candy forgotten. There is disgust and anger painted plainly on her wind-reddened face, and her upper lip threatens to curl into a sneer. "What do you want?"

The smirk only widens, and he brings up his hand to inhale the cigarette in his fingers, blowing out twin streams of smoke through his nose. "You," he points to Maria, and the poor girl looks flabbergasted. "Walk away."

A verbal snap of a finger, Maria's eyes glazed over, and she steps to the side, her movement forced and jerky. Franny's hand on her arms brings her to blink away the glaze, and she stares at the girl.

Mind control.

Son of a_ fucking_ bitch.

"Maria." She lets go of her arm, shuffling into her shoulder-slung back to bring out her wallet. "You know that funnel cake stand by the carousel?" She pulls out a wad of cash, slipping them into the girl's hand. "Can you grab me one?"

The girl gives her a long, strange look, eyes sliding from her, to him, back to her. Francis gives her a meaningful stare.

"...okay, Franny. I'll meet you at the carousel." With another mistrustful look towards the creature, she walks off, and Francis stares at her back long enough to see her move back into the crowd.

Safe.

"Franny."

Eyes flash of green fire back to the beast, and now her lip does pull back. "I thought I told you not to come near me."

"You did." It takes another drag. "You'd think I'd listen to you?"

She swallows the spit of her fire, and her sharp retort.

"What the_ fuck_ do you want? Both times you've tried to take me, both times you've failed. I'm not interested, I'm not available. I like living! Would you like a third lesson? Are you not used to not getting what you want?_ Do I need to carve a stake to make you understand_?!"

She's starting to get hot, there's sweat on her face. It drips down her neck.

This is terribly upsetting.

And the creature looks terribly amused, watching her and smoking calmly.

She nearly snorts like a wild bull.

"What do you _want_?"

She doesn't receive an answer, just a billow of smoke in her face. Now she does snort, baring her teeth.

And it grins back at her. "You're very angry."

"For good reason!" she spits, turning on her heel and very nearly smacking his face with her hair. There's a snarl on her face as she goes to march away.

"Hey. Franny."

She whips her head back. "WHAT?"

"There's a bar on the inner edge of the Boardwalk, called the Twister Sister. You heard of it?"

"I know where it is," she snaps impatiently. What the hell does he want?

He takes the last drag of his cigarette, flicking away the butt. "Be there in two hours." And he walks away, disappearing into the seam of the crowd before she has a chance to protest.

She's speechless. She's hot, she's sweating, she's irritated.

She hopes the bar is crowded.


	7. Chapter 7

"Girl, you got invited to a date."

"Please don't." Francis' face nearly creaks from the grimace. "I rather set myself ablaze then go on a date with that."

"What, why? He's _smokin'_ hot." Maria's grin widens and her hands come up in surrender at the scathing look. "Well, besides his sparkling attitude, he does seem interested in you." She frowns. "He does have that dangerous look about him, though."

"No kidding," she sighs. She rubs her face, leaning forward in her seat, another sandy bench at the edge of the beach. The distant sounds of the Boardwalk blur together with the crisp crash of the waves ahead, and it is peaceful.

It's a balm.

"Franny, you don't have to go with this guy," Maria breaks her trance with a soft voice, placing a tender hand on her arm. She smiles at the fond touch. "He's a creep, big deal. He can't boss you around. There isn't a man alive can boss around Miss Francis."

That brings a breathy laugh out of her, and she lifts her head, grinning at her friend. "Maria, what would I do without you?"

"Eat ice cream in front of the tube." She laughs loudly.

The bar. Why a bar.

_'Be there in two hours.'_ That was an hour and a half ago.

She groans aloud, slipping her face back in her palms. "Why me?"

She feels a pat on her back. "You'll be okay. You either don't go, or you do go and get in a nice tumble. There's nothing that warms your bones better than hate sex."

"Maria!"

"What? He's hot!"

"He's a prick!"

"Then don't go!"

She sighs raggedly in her palms, thumbs rubbing her eyes. "I have to." Her shoulders slump. "He has answers to my questions." She leans back into the bench. "And I probably have answers to his." She snorts, exhaling through her nose. "I better get going. I'll see you tomorrow?"

"You got it, sister. Bright and early on the beach, you better be there."

"I'll be there." With a wave and a smile, both girls part ways, Maria sliding behind the wooden path into the neighborhood, and herself taking the path to the edge.

And while she walks, she thinks of all the clever ways to torch the beast that insists on becoming the thorn in her side.

There's an unspoken agreement to the rest of the stragglers on the path to move away from the fiery redhead with the fanged sneer on her pretty face, and there's naught a misstep all her way when wood meets pavement.

She's only been to this part of the Boardwalk once, during one of her trips in the sun, and she has yet to explore at night. So she does not blame herself for the upset growl her stomach contributes as she gazes at the single motorcycle set in the parking lot, next to the other sleek vehicles.

She swallows thickly.

"Hey! Franny!" A heavy-set man with tattoos covering nearly every inch of his skin, including the colored snake wrapped around his bald head, waves as she steps inside the, thankfully, crowded bar.

She feels a smile curl her lips, and she walks over to the bar.

"Hi Alan." The comfort of a friendly face keeps her posture relaxed, and she rests her elbows on the bar. "Been busy?"

"Honey, you ain't kiddin', this good weather's been good for the business." He makes a face. "Absolutely terrible on my back. These old bones ain't what they used to be." She laughs.

"Alan, you don't seem a day over thirty."

The man gives a great guffaw. "Aw, kid! This is why I like ya." He pats her hand. "You ever need anythin', you give old Alan a call." He slides away to deal with the other customers leaning against the bar.

She smiles after him, patting her own hand and leaning back to stand. She inhales through her nose, once, twice. A sharp breeze flits across her face, and her eyes narrow.

She looks over her shoulder.

The creature's visage is a knife in the dark, white hair contrasting sharply with his black.

His boots give heavy clumps as he walks inside, nudging her arm with the fabric of his coat as he walks past, past the bar and near the booths along the sides. He slides into a seat, leaning back to rests his arms behind his head, feet propped up on the table.

Waiting.

She follows.

She takes her seat on the opposite of his, where she already finds his smirk set in place.

She frowns heavily in response.

"Well?"

He huffs, digging in his coat and pulling out a box of cigarettes, sliding one out and slipping it into place. He lights it with a match. "Well, what."

She stares, ruddy brows furrowed down over flashing eyes. His own, murky green eyes stare calmly back, almost lazy in it's stare, the white wisps of smoke billowing from his nostrils in twin streams. He reminds her of a Predator, for that is what he truly is.

She leans back into her own seat, legs spread to his unoccupied side, arms crossed loosely in front of her torso. Her hair spills in corkscrew waves over her shoulders, hiding half her face and keeping her feeling protected. Her string of amulets glint from the overhead light, reflecting off her long, golden nails.

Unafraid.

"You've called me here for a reason, I hope."

He snorts, taking another inhale of his stick. "I did say you were entertainment."

The word alone makes her sneer automatically. "Charming."

"But that's only part of the reason."

Huh. She cocks a brow.

"The trick you did at the beach," he leans over to flick his ashes away. "What was it." It was more of a command than a question.

Now she snorts, grinning wide despite herself. "A trick. A flick of the finger." She snaps her fingers. "Child's play."

He hums, taking another drag, longer than before. His eyes turn hard in his stare, turned more studious than intimidating. Like she's another puzzle to solve.

Despite her better judgment, she finds this flattering.

"What would you call yourself."

"What would I call myself?" _What?_ "Living." Now he cocks a brow. She frowns at him. He stares.

She sighs, leaning forward to rest her chin in her hand. Her lips purse together, and there's a terse pause before she answers. "My kind are burned at the stake," she mutters, then snorts at her choice of wording. She raises both brows at him. "Does that answer your question?"

He exhales a cloud of smoke, straight into her face. She pulls away with a grimace. "Suppose it does. That would explain," now he smiles. "You."

"Me." Her frown returns, and she crosses her arms tightly. "You've been watching me."

"Yes. I told you." Entertainment.

She sneers again. "You must be very bored." He simply shrugs.

"You said that was part of the reason. What's the other part?"

This time, he takes a moment before speaking, flicking the butt of his cigarette away and sliding another between his lips to light.

"You could be useful."

She barks out a laugh, shoulders shaking from the force of her mirth. "Useful! I should be flattered!"

"You should be." He takes a deep inhale, exhaling from the corner of his mouth. "You're powerful. You haven't met the rest of us yet."

"Yet," she catches, the apples of her cheeks flaming from the bit of compliment. "You have plans. Plans that include me."

"Yes." He takes his time, staring at the features of her face, almost ingraining them to his memory. Her ears burn from the scrutiny, and she scowls. He smiles, a slow and menacing thing.

"You want to protect your family." She feels such a sharp pain in her heart it nearly takes her breath away. The blood drains from her face. "So do I."

Her question dies on her lips. _You have family?_ And she remembers, he does. The pack. _Coven_, her mind corrects. She speaks through numb lips. "You want a truce."

"Yes." He takes a slow drag of his cigarette.

"Why?" she asks. Why me?

This time, his grin removes all menace from his face, and he looks like a content man smoking the last of his smoke. "I told you. You're entertainment." He inhales the last of his stick, flicking away the butt. "So." He lifts his legs from the table, sliding them back under.

She removes her own to sit up straight. He leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. His face is hard, his eyes are stony. There is no smirk in sight.

"We have a deal?"

She takes a moment. She weighs her options.

No worries of her friend, of her Mother. No worries of being sucked dry and left on a beach bench to rot. To no longer feel fear at the sign of night, at the feel of a crisp wind.

Her brows come down heavily, and her lips purse together in a firm line.

She offers her right hand, tilted at the side.

He takes it. They shake on it.

She holds onto his gloved hand a moment longer. "What's your name?" she asks softly.

He smirks. "David."

She smirks back. "Francis." She releases his hand.

She leans back in her seat, as does he.

"Alan!" she calls, not taking her eyes off the creature. He lights another cigarette.

"Franny!"

She looks up, holding up two fingers. "Two beers please!"


	8. Chapter 8

"Is the rest of your pack this amiable."

"Not exactly, but I think they'll like you calling them 'pack'."

"That's what it is, isn't it?"

"Technically yes, but we prefer the term 'family'."

"That's a strange gathering for a family."

"Aren't they all? We're all gathered for the same purpose: live how we like, when we like."

"That's childish."

"Don't knock it 'til you try it, Franny."

"Francis."

"Franny. Tell me about your family."

"Tell me about yours."

"You've already met them, if you were paying attention. Either on the Boardwalk, or during that little visit in the video shop."

"I remember the video store. That's a very small pack."

"I'm aware. We've tried to recruit more, but it. Never really turned out well."

"Huh... I counted three. What are their names?"

"From oldest to youngest, there's Dwayne, Marko, and Paul. Dwayne's the half-naked native, Marko's the silent shit with the grin, and there's Paul. You'll know 'em when you see 'em."

"Males."

"Males."

"Why all males."

"We didn't have a say in the matter. It just happened."

"More of a brotherhood than a pack."

"You still see us as humans. We don't differentiate between gender. There's humans, and then there's us. We aren't clumped together in the grand scope anymore."

"That is true. How did you become?"

"That's a very vague question. And you didn't answer mine."

"What was it?"

"Tell me about your family."

"That wasn't a question."

"I don't care."

"There's not much to my immediate family. Just me and my Mom. And my dog. But I have enough Aunts and Uncles and cousins to spare, we're a big family in general. We keep to ourselves and cause no problems, and yet people still try to weasel their way in."

"Explain."

"Well, through marriage and friendships. My family isn't exactly wealthy, but we're known, mostly in small towns. My grandmother, may she rest in peace, was one of the best healers in her area. She birthed babies and made potions for the sick. She studied acupuncture and hands-on massage healing techniques. She passed away last year. Most thought she was fucking loony."

"Was she?"

"No! She was a medicine woman, from an ancient line drawn all the way back to the Stone Age."

Franny pauses, leaning her elbows on the table and pressing her face in her hands. Oh, Gramma. You were taken too soon.

"Humans are gods-damned cruel," she mutters.

There's an airy snort from the table's other occupant, and the white-haired creature flicks away the ashes of his cigarette. Of how many he's had so far, she's lost count.

"That's a funny comment coming from you."

"Really."

"You'd think you were a humanitarian."

"Oh, please." She lifts her head, folding her arms on the table. "I'm aware of this species' cruelty."

"Yes, you would. How's being burnt at the stake feel?"

She sneers, leaning back in her seat. She crosses her arms tightly.

"You tell me, _beast_."

There's a spark in those, normally liquid-calm eyes, and the spark of his cigarette lights in response. He exhales a plume of smoking, aiming for her face.

"You _are_ angry."

"Ruthless," she corrects absentmindedly. She pulls a face and reaches for her drink, a beer bottle half emptied. A lusty gulp soothes her parched throat. "Witches aren't known for mercy." She points a finger, the index of her right hand, pointing near the middle of his forehead.

Third Eye blind, beast. He flicks away his ashes.

"We don't play with our food."

The creature is silent, unsmiling, staring into her eyes and into her face like she's another puzzle to solve. She hopes he stares long, studies longer. For she takes this time to stare and study twice as much.

If Life truly is Kill or Be Killed, she will fight for hers.

"I was right." She blinks.

He's relaxed against his seat, leaning far back with dirtied boots propped onto his corner of the booth's table. His arms are crossed loosely over his layered torso, and the smoke hangs between smirking lips.

"What?"

He grins outright, the right corner of his mouth lifting to show the beginning of his canine fang. "You _are_ interesting."

It shouldn't matter, it should brush off her shoulders like water. But the surprised snort flies out before she can stop it, and her ears burn from the unexpected flattery.

"Gods above." She finishes her beer. "You must be absolutely bored. How do you survive?"

"One night at a time, Franny."

"_Francis_, please."

"No." She sneers.

There's a pause, the first of the night. Not uncomfortable, she finds. Well, considering the circumstances. She toys with the mouth of the empty bottle, rubbing the callous on her thumb against the edges.

By all rights, she should be dead. A dried husk half sunken in the sand along the coast. Or wet and rotting and stuffed deep into the garbage bin of the local restaurant.

I suppose this is a life-changing experience, she muses, half-serious. Granted, she did not expect to even see a sentient creature so soon, especially humanoid. Much less having a conversation with one. Not a terrible conversation, either. The creases of her lips turn down in a frown.

If only her mother could see her now. The bile threatens to bubble in her throat.

Think not of the Mother, for her sight is far and many.

Honestly, the amount of times that woman has cracked the proverbial whip on Franny's happenstances is too many. She has always found herself extremely lucky to have a woman of her mother's caliber, of the mind and soul, and _especially_ the spiritual, but if the woman ever found out of this circumstance, the consequences would go far beyond Franny's behavioral scope. She shudders at the basics of ideas of it. Best to keep the lips and mind sealed, for now.

And speaking of the mind.

"What did you do to Maria?" she asks, tilting her head to face her guest.

The guest, still lounging and following the stray fly with his eyes, his only cigarettes smoked and thrown, brings his attention back to the conversation at her question. "When?" he asks.

_When?_ "At the Boardwalk, tonight."

The creature huffs a laugh, the pools of his eyes slanting and laughing at her. "A trick. A flick of the finger." He snaps his fingers, the sound muffled slightly by his leather gloves. "Child's play."

She frowns.

She frowns for a very long time. She stares. He stares back. She frowns harder. His smirk deepens.

"Beast."

"Psycho bitch."

"Rodent."

"Cunt."

"Shit-sucker."

"Witch."

They smirk in cynical unison.

"It's getting late," she announces suddenly, having taken her chance to scope the area. She's unnerved to find the place nearly deserted.

"Getting sleepy?"

She grunts, releasing her empty bottle. "As you prowl the night, beast, I bask in the sun. I need sleep." She slips from the booth, stretching up to her toes until joints pop. She sighs.

"Leaving me the bill?"

"You don't sound surprised."

"Only that you think I'll pay it."

"Bastard."

"Bitch."

She eyes the table's only occupant. He stares back just as much, keen to watch her every move, it seems.

Her mouth twists, and both eyebrows rise at the creature. "Am I to expect you again?"

The creature, well, David, gives another grin, about as charming as a grinning crocodile. He reaches for his beer, untouched, finally flicking away the cap with twitch of his finger. He takes a long pull, keeping his eyes neatly fixed onto her own. He pulls away with a soft sigh, grinning once more.

"Set a clock to it."


	9. Chapter 9

There's a foul stench in the air.

The acrid inhale of burning hair and rotting flesh.

This dream seems a tad _excessive_ tonight.

As with any other night, and with every other dream, she takes a moment, taking in her surroundings and letting her senses perform the work for her.

She is bare. Neither clothing nor her hair brush against her skin. There is no outer breeze, there is a soft surface under her legs. She is sitting, legs crossed. There is heat on her front, gently flicking along the barest surface of her face.

She opens her eyes.

There is fire.

She _shrieks_, forcing the whole of her form back away from the licking abyss, the Molten Enemy. Cool sand sprays into the air from her scampering, kicking in the pit of the bonfire. She only stops until she's a good five feet away from the bright pit.

She digs the hooks of her nails into the sunken ground, bringing the thud of her heart to a calm pace.

The golden glitter trickles from her hand as she brings it out of the ground, to wipe away the cold sweat on her brow. Realistic, her mind whispers. A vision.

She stands.

She is on the coast, on an empty beach and neighbors with the shore. The waves, as she sees, are silent and still. No waves crash along the beach this starless night.

There is only one light in the darkened sky: the full moon. She gazes up into it, letting the bright light nearly blind her waking eyes.

There's a heavy lump in her throat, and she tries to swallow it down. Without success.

"No light," she speaks, and the sound is nearly deafening in this Silence. "No warmth. No Sun."

She bares her teeth in a flash of defiance. No! There will be Sun! she silently shouts to the glare of the Moon.

There will be warmth! There will be Light! There will always be Light!

The bonfire at her front rises, growing in width and rises in height. It spreads to the sands, spiraling around and around until she has to step away to resist being drawn into the Pit.

The flames follow her steps, gaining speed as it moves closer.

Her heart drums a rapid beat against her ribcage. She steps back. The flames follow.

She turns to move, and the heat licks up the line of her spine.

She runs, the flames follow.

She feels the edges of her hair go alight, and the sparks crawl along her scalp.

Her screams give fuel to the flames.

As the flesh of her scalp and face melt and burn away to a crisp, the juicy balls of her eyes boiling in her skull, the delicate strands of her vocal chords tearing from the strength of her cries, she tilts her head to the blackened sky.

The moon is red, and dripping with Blood.

* * *

There's a strangled shout stuck in her throat, and she shoots up into a sitting position.

She is lying on the bench, along the edge of the Boardwalk, facing the soothing crash of the waves. She has fallen asleep at the proverbial wheel, in the middle of public. She mentally scolds herself.

There is sand crusted against her bare arms, and she brushes them off absently. She wipes her face of the drippings of cold sweat.

The sweat is a deep maroon as she pulls her hand away.

"Franny." Her head snaps to her side.

David lounges against the bench, needle-thin fangs resting against his bottom lip in a cunning grin. She can see bits of flesh stuck to his teeth. There is blood smearing along his mouth. Her blood.

His eyes blaze hotly. Like Fire.

"Be one of us, Franny."

Her eyes snap open.

She's home, tucked in the thick blankets of her bed. There's an acrid stench in the air, and she sees that it is only the wick of one of her candles, burnt down to the quick and extinguished. She can hear the soft twitter of birds outside her opened window, and the soft rays of morning light spread along her carpeted floor.

She rises, sitting up in her cocoon of blankets. Shoulders bent inward, she holds her face in her hands, slowly rubbing the sleep from her face and eyes. She rubs both sides of her neck, searching for wet indents in the flesh.

She trails her fingertips along her hairline, remembering the phantom pain of her hair bursting into flames. She slips out of bed, her bare feet padding along the hardwood floor of the cabin.

That was not a dream, she muses. Twas a vision, a highly detailed vision. Details include importance. She tries to mentally break down each individual moment of last night.

After the enlightening conversation with the mythical beast, she went home, straight from the bar. Her mother was already in bed when she unlocked the door, so she is prepared to have a talk from the woman this morning.

She just hopes her Mother is in a good mood.

She smiles, stepping into the shower. When is that woman ever not in a good mood?

"Franny!"

Speak of the spirit and ye shall appear. She peaks her head out of the shower. "I'm in the shower!"

"Okay, honey! I have breakfast downstairs when you're ready! I made pancakes!"

She grins stupidly under the water.

Water.

The sea was silent, that's never happened before.

She was on the beach, she didn't recognize the area. It wasn't near the Boardwalk.

The fire...

The fire she recognizes.

She cleans quickly, shutting off the water and grabbing a towel before stepping out, drying quickly and efficiently.

It is the fear of every witch on this plane, dead or undead.

The Flame is the Ultimate Punishment, brought on by the terrified and corrupted courts of Long Before. Damn the men who bring the torches and the books, spewing the Holy Lies from their frothing lips.

She had vowed, long ago, when puberty had struck at the tender age of thirteen, to never succumb to the threats of men, and to the Fire.

Irony had struck then, for she had learned the manifestation of her power.

She wipes her face of sweat with the towel, wiping away the steam from the mirror.

She ties her hair back today, in twin pigtails in neon green scrunchies. An airy, white dress is the only clothing atop a white-and-blue polka-dot bikini. She remembers to grab her beach bag and sunscreen before moving downstairs.

"There you are!" Her mother, wrapped in a simple sundress, swirled in brown and gold, meets her daughter at the end of the staircase. "Oh, look at you!" She pats her daughter's cheeks, leading her into the kitchen. Rufus snuffles happily at his food bowl, the fluff of his tail whumping from side to side as she scratches his back along the way.

"I'm so excited about today!" her mother sings, sipping at her cup of coffee.

Franny cuts into her three-stack-worth of syrup-covered pancakes, giving a happy grin. "Excited about meeting Maria?"

"Of course! Excited about the beach, excited about the brunch, excited about your friend! You're not one to make close friends, I bet she's going to be a complete doll!"

She huffs a laugh. "I think she'll like you too, Mom."

"Really? You think so?"

"Absolutely."

* * *

As always, the beach of Santa Carla is nearly bursting from the naked and tanned bodies littered along the golden sands.

But thankfully, the red-haired duo took a trip to the perfect spot early in the morning.

Rubbed with suntan oil and donning twin golden aviators, the women lay against their beach towels, the floral umbrella sunk into the sand nearby and giving a sense of shade, for when the sun turns too harsh.

Maria soon joins the party not too long after, donned in a metallic-gold bikini. Pleasantries are exchanged, where the Elder quickly jumps up to give the woman a good, welcoming hug, before another towel is spread, and all three women are basking happily under the warm sun.

"So, Maria, darling."

The woman shifts, leaning on her side to face the Elder, resting her head in her hand. "Yes, Ms Clearwater?"

"How long have you know my daughter?"

Franny grins to herself, lying on her belly and resting her cheek on crossed arms, watching the fated exchange.

"Since she started at the video store, Ms Clearwater, that was..." she pauses. "A month ago, I think. Was it a month ago?" she asks the girl.

"A little over a month ago, yeah."

"I talked to her first, because she was quiet and kept to herself." A huff of soft laughter from the Elder interrupts the story, and Franny snorts. "But, she seemed nice, I asked if she wanted to hang out. She's been stuck with me since then." Maria flashes a grin over. Franny grins back.

"Aw, that's fantastic! I've heard so many good things about you, I'm glad my Franny has a friend as sweet as you."

"Thanks, Ms Clearwater!" she chirps, all smiles.

"Please, call me Amelia."

Franny's smile widens enough for her cheeks to hurt.

"Okay. Amelia." Maria flips, matching Franny and lying on her stomach, letting the sun bake her back. "Hey, me and Franny were going to head to the Boardwalk later tonight."

"Oh, that sounds like fun!"

"Yeah! Would you like to come with us?"

The lightened eyebrows of Franny nearly lift off into the blue sky above, and the bottom of her stomach drops into the earth's core. She swallows thickly.

"Oh, I couldn't possibly. I wouldn't want to cramp your style as young women."

"You wouldn't cramp our style! You're the coolest mom I've ever met, young women will love you!" Maria takes this opportunity to grin over at her, eyes sparkling like the stars.

Thank goodness for her sunglasses.

"Well... As long as Franny is alright with it."

Her mouth curls upwards despite herself, and she smiles softly.

"Of course you can come with us, Mom. It'll be fun." She hopes.

And if not, well.

It's not like the Clearwater women are ill-equipped to defend themselves.


	10. Chapter 10

"Again."

The white-blond creature of the Moon stares down into her face once more.

It is night, and the twinkle of the stars above are drowned out by the brighter lights of the Boardwalk's way, neon signs blinding and fried foods suffocating.

Her mother was adamant on getting to know Maria better, and, excited to get to know such a "rad lady", Maria had gone along with the plan. Franny had excused herself, content to let the other females bond and cluck together while taking their chance on rides. It put her in better spirits, the idea of her family being safe, and it gave her more time to flit about the wooden path on her own, without the worry of a piercing gaze.

Or so she thought.

"Are you following me?"

He gives out such a sudden bark, she thinks it's a snarl. He's_ chuckling_, can vampires chuckle?

"That's vain of you," he says simply, brushing past her to stride down the wooden path, at a leisurely pace.

She makes a terrible face at his back, before moving to catch up.

"What are you doing here?"

"What am I doing? I live here."

She hums.

"You are in a good mood."

"I am," he confirms. And says nothing more. She takes this moment to study.

There's a softness to his face, near the flesh of his cheeks and mouth. He even carries a rosy blush and amiable expression.

"You fed," she states, and feels that stab of pride when his sliver of an eyebrow shoots up in surprise.

"You are full of surprises." She grins.

They take a moment, walking side by side in a firm stride, in companionable silence. He brings another cigarette to his mouth.

"Those are terribly unhealthy."

His answer is a simple Look. She shrugs. He pats at his pockets, searching and re-searching. She cocks a brow. "I forgot matches," he mumbles, frowning over his unlit smoke.

She rolls her eyes, throwing a wink at his mouth. A spark of light engulfs the end, trailing a white wisp of smoke. Both his eyebrows rise this time, and he takes his needed inhale.

"Nifty." He exhales a cloud, and she wrinkles her nose at the acrid stench. It flashes her back to this morning.

She makes a face, crossing her arms tightly over her torso. "Does your kind dream?"

His eyes flick over to her in an incredulous look, and he takes another drag.

"My kind?" She huffs through her nose. "Sometimes. They're mostly visions of our lives before."

Now she gives him a look. "That's very personal."

"Is it?" He shrugs. "You asked."

"Is it permanent?"

"No. They fade after a decade or so. Most of us can't remember what we were like when we were alive." Now she frowns.

There is silence once more. They've walked to the edge of the path, where the scatterings of tourists and locals are far and few, from the lack of attractions, or from the intimidation factor of the walking duo, she's not entirely sure.

"Thinking of joining?"

"No." He smirks at her lack of hesitation.

"You're smarter than you look."

"I'm taking that as a compliment, thank you."

"Why not?"

She shakes her head, lines creasing her brow. "It's not for me. I have too many plans, and too many know me. To become an Undead for an unending night of fun sounds like a short drop and a sudden stop. The metaphorical hangman's noose." She makes a face, sliding her eyes over to him. "It_ is_ attractive, don't get me wrong. But there's simply too much weight on my back to be able to shake it off without a moment's notice."

He stares at her a moment, the half-ashed cigarette hanging loosely between his lips. The lit end burns brightly, and he exhales twin streams from his nostrils. "How old are you?" he asks suddenly.

She's taken back. "What has that got to do with anything?"

"You are too young to think like that."

"Old enough," she grunts, frowning deeply. He merely grins.

"How old are _you_?"

"Old." She glares. He grins. "Trust me."

"That's a funny word coming from you."

"You don't trust me."

"Do you really need to ask."

"No," he says simply. "I only wanted to hear your answer. It wouldn't be you if you said yes."

"Wouldn't be me," she repeats. "And of course you know me."

"I'd like to."

Her frown is neatly confused. "Why? Technically, I'm cattle. Seems a waste."

A surprised snort nearly puffs his cigarette out of his mouth, and he cocks a brow at her. "That's one of the reasons."

Her heart pinches in a panic. "You're lying."

He bounces both brows once, taking longer strides ahead. His lack of answer freezes her legs, but she manages to jog after him to keep up.

* * *

"When am I to meet the rest of your Pack?"

They are sitting, sharing the same bench on the beach that she enjoys. Her shoes sit in the sand, and her bare legs are crossed under her dress. They watch the waves.

He sits upright until she asks, where he huffs and rests his arms behind his head, sliding down to settle into his seat.

"Did you want to?"

"I thought it would be required."

His grin is slow and feral. "Does that mean I get to meet your mother?"

Her flash of teeth is automatic, but she doesn't bother to hide her snarl. In the terms of a truce, all must Play Fair.

Fuck's sake.

"If you'd like," she grits out, nearly gnashing her teeth.

And for the first time, she hears him laugh. Not too different from his bark, but it manages to soothe her ire. Somewhat.

"They're around here somewhere," he answers, when he manages to catch his breath. He ruffles his own hair, mussing his mohawk, or mullet, or whatever he calls that. "You'll meet them, don't worry about it."

"...oh." She blinks. "Well, thank you." He tilts his head in acknowledgment.

"You'd think I'd let you flap in the breeze?" He waves his hand for emphasis.

Her frown and narrowed stare is his answer, and he snorts, threading his hands behind his head.

"Prickly thing, aren't you."

She bares her teeth in her answer.

"Be thankful you're cute, Franny."

"Don't call me cute."

"Don't like it?"

"Not really."

"That's a shame."

There's a comfortable silence, only taken in by the soft crash of the sea's waves against the shoreline.

Francis sits up against the bench, spine ramrod straight and the line of her shoulders set in a terse line. Goosebumps rise along her arms and legs, and she frowns deeply against the feeling.

There is a large group of cold, like a wisp of freezing wind, moving and shifting closer to their area. Her hands clench into fists in her lap.

"Relax," David drawls, flicking away the butt of his cigarette. She scowls in his direction, and he sits up straight, stretching and rubbing his neck. "The 'Pack' is coming." He smirks at her.

She frowns. That doesn't help her stomach in the slightest.

The group diminishes, separates, two bursts moving away with a lesser strand, and a man steps up to stand next to David's seat.

"Dwayne," he murmurs his greeting. She stares at the newcomer, studying him shamelessly.

The first thing she notices is his face, tilted towards the waves. There is a content space spreading between his thick brows from the view, but the lines of his face are hard, stern. The strong and silent type. Chestnut hair spills down his shoulders in thick waves, over his plain leather jacket and bare chest. There is a single claw, or tooth, hung on a piece of rope round his neck. Her eyes flick away in polite respect, back to his face.

He's watching her. His eyes are narrowed, and she recognizes the look on his face as the same of David's.

He's studying her.

"Franny." And speaking of, David speaks, facing her, the corner of his mouth twitching. He raises both brows. "This is Dwayne."

She adamantly refrains from scrambling to her feet for her greeting, remaining on the bench. She meets the silent one's eyes.

Unafraid.

"Hi," she greets, eyes clear and voice steady.

He does not smile, nor voice his greeting, but he keeps firm eye contact, and gives the barest of nods. His eyes flit back to David, and she knows she's been dismissed.

She frowns, facing away to watch the sea once more.

"Where are they?" She hears David speak.

There's a pause. "Laddie wanted to go on the carousel before it closed." His voice is deeper than David's, and he sounds faintly...

Amused.

The carousel?

David stands, brushing his seat of sand. "Well, Franny," he speaks, facing her once more. He grins, looking more younger than his old bones probably are. "Now's your chance."

Wordlessly, she unfolds her legs, remembering to scoop her shoes out of the sand before standing. She looks up at him, and she huffs, the corners of her mouth curling up.

"Lead the way."


	11. Chapter 11

This meeting is not what she expected.

Granted, this _event_ is not what she was expecting, period.

But, here she is, following not one Predator, but two, keeping behind the leather-clad men as they clomp along the wooden path of the Boardwalk in their heavy boots, while she silently steps in her bare feet, swinging her shoes in her right hand.

She feels more like the lamb being brought to dinner. She knows she has nothing to fear, she is aware of the raw fire burning in her veins and stomach. She could smite their entire coven with a twist of her delicate little fingers.

But that does not stop the nerves that flutter in her gut.

She has never been in the presence of a full Coven before.

She is uneasy, but is determined to keep it hidden deep.

They will not see her uneasy.

She is Unafraid.

"What are you able to do?" she calls, directing her question to the Pack Leader.

She can feel the eye roll of the white-blond beast at her front. "Vague," he calls, over his shoulder.

She harrumphs. "You know what I mean."

"Don't think I do."

"Think of Hollywood then."

He snorts. "I think of a lack of imagination."

"Humor me?"

"I'm able to do a lot of things; go jogging, fix a car, punch a fucker's teeth out."

"You can punch a fucker's teeth out?"

"Ooh, _Franny_." He tsks. "Language."

"How many teeth?"

"All of them."

She scrunches her face at his back. "Can you turn into a bat?"

"God, no."

"Really?"

"You'd want to?"

"Well no, but it's not the worst I've heard of. And it could be useful! Do you sleep in coffins?"

Dwayne may have made a disagreeable face, for David looks his way before grinning. "We can, but we don't."

"Cramped?"

"You better believe it."

"Where do you sleep?"

Now he looks over his shoulder at her, lips pulled back in a grin that shows the points of his canines. "Now, Franny," he playfully admonishes, eyes glinting. "Are you asking to come home with us?"

The look on her face must have been amusing, for his grin widens as he grunts another laugh, turning back to face the front. There's a hum from his side, and she assumes the silent one must be chuckling at her, too.

She frowns, swinging her arms at her side.

She takes this moment to assess the situation once more.

The Boardwalk is quiet, a rare time, the stars overcast in the black sky. It is getting late, and the small scatterings of the locals put her nerves on edge. She needs to call her Mother, make sure she is alright, along with Maria. She left them along the rides, maybe she will see them there.

Considering her audience, hopefully not.

Her head is craned back, legs moving on their own as she gazes into the stars above, neatly keeping a fair distance from ramming into the backs of the leader, the crisp cold of his aura keeping her a fixed point away.

"Dwayne," she calls, lifting her head back upright, reaching up to brush away her curls from her eyes.

And she finally manages to catch the sight of the silent one, content to stare at her over his shoulder in response.

"You don't talk much."

A simple rise of his eyebrow is his only answer.

"Why?"

There's a long moment where he merely looks, and her stride slows as she stares back into the dark holes of his eyes.

He is old. The Silent Sentinel, he has seen much. Endured far greater. It is merely the trick of the fading light, but she can see the deep lines of age in the creases of his eyes and brow.

"Not much to say."

She blinks, and he is merely a man, not much older than her, speaking to her.

"You talk too much."

She frowns, heavily. "I do."

"Why?"

She shrugs her thin shoulders. "I need answers. Asking is easier."

Now he frowns at her, the soft lines of his brow creasing downward. His lips purse into a firm line, and he blinks.

"Why do you need answers?"

"To survive," she says simply.

Now that catches the Pack Leader's attention. "You worry about surviving?" he asks, slowing down his stride to better face her. He is interested, she sees.

"Of course." How interesting. "Shouldn't I?"

"Not really, you're human. Humans don't normally worry about 'surviving'."

Now she laughs softly. "David, you forget. I am not normal. I never was." She stares into his eyes, remembering the night she plucked the heat of the sun from the sky and pressed it into his forehead, and she smiles.

His smirk is dry, sardonic. "Right. I almost forgot." She laughs, and she can feel the vibration of Dwayne's laughter at her side.

* * *

She was wrong. The Boardwalk is not nearly as lonesome as she first realized.

The deafening roar of the crowd is distracting, and she almost loses her charges in the midst of the grouping, having to bypass an elderly couple and a family of two pushing a baby stroller.

"Try and keep up, Franny." She hears the mocking call from the Beast over the crowd.

He might as well struck a match against her bones.

Bastard.

Her stride is firm, her sight is focused, her posture is straight.

She keeps up.

And nearly stumbles when a child's shout about rattles the bones in her skull. She's never heard a child's voice become so loud, she almost drops her shoes.

Through her curtain of frazzled hair, neatly pulled out of the loose pigtails resting along her back, she sees the child, very young and very small, fly into the arms of Dwayne, where he lifts the child into the air and brings him into his arms in a hug. She brushes her hair away, staring openly.

Is that a smile she sees? How bizarre.

"There you are!" The spike of ice comes back, bringing a fresh wave of goosebumps to her arms. She rubs them absently, studying the two beings.

Inhuman, she sees, past the point of humanoid camouflage. There is an ethereal glow to their white skin, much like the two she has accompanied.

The voice comes from the one with the face of a cherub, and the eyes of a cat. With a head of thick, curly hair, the straight ends draping over a patched and pinned jacket, she has to squint to see the denim underneath, she assumes this one tries to look innocent. Tries? Is this bait? If so, then this creature is one she truly needs to keep her eye on, if only for her safety. How fascinating.

The other at his side, a bone-thin creature, nearly loses himself in the noise of the crowd behind and beside him, both watching and star-gazing, a faithful presence to the roll of his mind. His hair seems the product of fierce wind and hairspray, swiping back from his face and down his back. His clothing is about style, about comfort. Form-fitting pants and a loose jacket, fishnet shirt and fingerless gloves. The rock n' roll area, she surmises. Admittedly, she is envious.

There is silence, and she is herself again.

They stare.

She stares back.

This is the first time she has been in the presence of a Coven.

And they all seem amused by it.

Both of her eyebrows rise to her hairline.

"Hi. I'm Francis."

There's a smattering of snickering, particularly from the new ones. Dwayne simply smirks. David nurses another cigarette.

"Hi Francis," says the first one, the Cherub. Surprisingly, his greeting is sincere, his eyes are open. But his mouth curls along the corners. He reminds her of the Cheshire cat.

How fitting.

The other simply stares, or leers, leaning against the Cherub. The Cherub is undisturbed by this gesture. This is not uncommon, it seems.

"I'm Marko," the Cherub speaks, giving a genuine smile. But there is a glint in his eyes that prevents her from smiling fully, content to give a half-grin in greeting. He points to the man at his side, and she can see the layers of callouses along his palm in his gesture. Interesting. "This is Paul."

"Hi, Franny," the Whip drawls, lips peeling back to give a grin that is all teeth and gums. Her grin loses a wattage from the use of her nickname. He leans forward, nearly inches from her face.

He reeks of dried skunk.

That explains much.

He is playful, from the childish tint of his eyes and mouth. He likes to have fun. "We've heard a_ lot_ about you, girl."

What?

"You've spoken of me." She addresses this is David, and he exhales twin streams of smoke from his nostrils.

"Warned them," he corrects, glancing at the Whip. Paul grins. "I told them not to bother you."

She nods. Good.

"And my mother?"

"And your mother."

Very good.

"Shit, girl," Paul speaks, all loose limbs and smooth feeling. "You're one bossy lady."

She snorts, baring her teeth in a grin. "You better believe it." She receives cackling laughter in her answer.

This is her first time in the presence of a Coven.

And she does not feel as nervous as she once was.

"David." She points. "Paul. Marko." She points to each one, internally memorizing facial features and body language and speech patterns. "Dwayne."

The child.

The child sits in Dwayne's arms, held against the man's hip and staring down at her with both curiosity, and a wary note that seems odd, coming from such a young face.

What has_ he_ seen?

"Hi," she greets. The lines of her face have softened. Her lips tilt up in a soft smile. She ignores the dark warning in Dwayne's eyes. He is protective of this child.

The child blinks, and he nearly hides his face in Dwayne's hair from the attention. But, he seems to catch himself, and a surprisingly determined look overcomes his shyness. He stares at her head on. "Hi," he greets back.

"I'm Franny," she says. "What's your name?"

He stares at her, focusing on her face, her eyes. Her hair. A small frown turns at his lips in his study.

"I'm Laddie," he says finally. His fingers absently curl in the ends of Dwayne's hair.

"Hi Laddie. I like your coat."

A delighted look brightens his frown, and he toys with one of the bronze buttons of his coat, worn from use and love. "Thanks! I like your hair."

And now she is delighted, her smile blooming into a happy grin. "Thank you!" His own grin is blinding.

How cute!

The low timbre of familiar chuckling takes her away from this soft moment, and she looks over her shoulder at the amused face of the Pack leader, cigarette nearly burnt to the butt between his lips. She faces him fully. "Enjoying yourself?" he asks.

"Very," she chirps, looking up into the sky. The stars twinkle their hello. A breeze passes by, and she cannot fight the chill that nips along bare arms.

"It's getting late," she announces, bringing her head back. David watches her through half-lidded eyes.

He flicks the butt of his cigarette away. "Find your mother," he speaks.

She nods.

She remembers. She has an audience.

She faces them. "Nice meeting you," she states, looking into each set of eyes. Three grins and a smirk.

"Nice meeting _you_," says the Cherub. Marko.

"Come hang with us again, boss lady," speaks the Whip. He is Paul.

She grins fully. "I might." She might.

She smiles at the group, giving a wave to Laddie and a nod to David. He gives her a mock, two-fingered salute.

She repeats the gesture, taking long strides along the wooden path.

How interesting.


	12. Chapter 12

"I don't understand something."

"What don't you understand?" Franny asks, unloading the first few stacks of the new shipment onto the shelves. Something to do while work drags on.

"You. Your family."

Her eyebrows reach her hairline. "Not that many do, Maria." She smiles. "Should I be offended?"

"No! I don't mean that as a bad thing, god no. You're one of the coolest people I've ever met!" Franny beams. "Your mom, too. You're both so nice! You don't see nice like that anymore, everyone wants to shove you out of their way while they_ rush_. It's weird."

"It _is_ weird," she agrees. "I blame television." Maria laughs, leaning against the counter with her head held in her hands.

"Don't blame television, you'll put me out of business!" Max pipes up, from the other side of the store. Now both girls laugh.

"I blame motor vehicles," he states, fixing and straightening the signs against the windows. "You kids demand too much of technology these days, look at the motorcycle!" He cringes. "Unsafe. And terribly loud."

"But they're bad ass," Maria protests. "You're not planning to step on the boots of a dude who rides one of those."

Franny keeps her snicker smothered, biting her lip. She takes the emptied box, folding it back.

"I could see you on a motorcycle, Max," she announces, bringing a surprised laugh in response.

"If I was twelve years younger, maybe!" Her laughter follows her into the backroom, where she sets the empty boxes away.

She checks the clock.

"Max, I'm going on break!"

"Okay!" he calls from the front. She leaves the breakroom, heading towards the front door. "I'll be back in a half hour," she says, passing the man on her way out.

The warm breeze is what greets her first, and it flits about her face and around her neck. She smiles.

She walks.

There is not even a tickle of brisk wind against her skin. It is too early for Them yet.

And she is relaxed instantly.

She has naught a single doubt in her built body, but it is always nice to be able to fully _relax_ her hardened armor.

Especially at night.

And as she spots the bustling food court and jewelry stands, she decides to be selfish.

She treats herself to a full plate of sugary funnel cake, and it sits in her lap while she tilts her head for the tattooist, moving her hair away from the side of her head, baring her virgin earlobe.

He's a bone-skinny creature, shaved and tattooed and pierced more than any other person she's ever seen.

She offers him a piece of her funnel cake. He gives her a discount.

She walks away with a half-empty plate, and two small hoops in her ears. And in silver, no less. He was sorry he didn't have any gold jewelry.

"Should I get a tattoo next?" she asks the sugar-dusted food. The powdered sugar sprinkles off in answer.

Possibly.

She munches on her treat absently, letting her legs guide her to wherever they wish to go.

The neon sign of Frog's Comics draws her back inside the small store.

And she immediately feels the sting of eyes on the back of her neck. She frowns.

She's in the mood for Hellboy tonight.

"Yes, it's me," she speaks, sensing the presence of two behind her back. From the soft 'click' of jaws closing, she has spoken before they could. She turns.

They act as twins, even though their facial structures deny it. She frowns at them.

"Nice to see you again."

"Did you read the comic?" demands the miniature G. I. Joe.

"I did not."

"Why not?" asks the small janitor.

She shrugs. "I didn't need it."

There's a pause.

"Didn't need it?" barks Edgar. "You're joking."

"Nope." She takes another piece of her cake. She offers the plate to the both of them. She shrugs when they decline. More for her.

"You've seen vampires before?" asks Alan. He is rational, calculating in his silence. She likes him.

"Not really," she speaks through a full mouth. She clears it. "But, they are related. In the supernatural sense."

Another stunned silence, she's keeping score.

"Are you human?" asks Edgar, face sharp and eyes cold. She brushes the powdered sugar from her mouth.

She smiles.

"Mostly."

She sets the plate down, one-fourth of the amount it was, on the counter. A form of payment.

A bribe? Not yet.

She turns to walk out.

"Wait." She turns on her heel, facing the brothers. Her face is serious.

"Do you have the first comic of Hellboy?"

* * *

"I don't understand something."

"What don't you understand?" David asks, muttering over his lit cigarette.

The waves are choppy tonight, beating relentlessly against the muddy beach. Here and there, in the distance, the faint glow of a bonfire or two gleam happily, the heart of a drum circle as well as a beer burn.

Which leaves the white sands, and the Boardwalk near, unoccupied. Again.

Francis takes a moment to answer.

She sits on the dry sand, legs bare and stretched out. She wears naught but a simple top and jean shorts, ripped from love and good use.

Her hair is loose, and brushes against her face and shoulders with each wisp of a warm breeze. She closes her eyes happily.

"What don't you understand?"

She faces him.

He is as she's always seen him: clothed in black and relaxed in his seat. His boots are still on, she sees, and not a spike of hair seems misplaced on his white head.

He raises one of his eyebrows, staring ahead. A cloud of white smoke billows over his face.

"Why you?" His eyes snap to her face. "As the leader, I mean," she explains.

"Vague," comes the usual mutter. She frowns.

She doesn't know how to word that better.

"Why," she starts, "Why make a coven? Why them?" she gestures behind her, where she knows the rest of his pack are usually slinking behind. They are never too far from the root.

He rolls his answer in his head, wondering where the hell that came from. But he is not surprised, he is used to this treatment from her by now. He takes his needed inhale.

"Imagine starting out like..," he starts, exhaling a cloud of smoke. The wind carries it away. "This. The first of Many. A big brother." He meets her eyes. She is leaning forward, attentive in her body language and the open structure of her face.

"Wouldn't you get lonely?"

She frowns, and leans back. She agrees.

"And Dwayne was the first?"

"Nope." He flicks away the cigarette. "Marko was the first. Dwayne joined us."

"You didn't turn him?"

"He was turned before he came. He never said by who. I don't think he ever will." He rests his arms behind his head.

She remembers him, the Silent Knight. Fiercely protective of his kin. "He's very quiet."

"Always was."

"Paul was next."

"Yeah," he scoffs. "We picked him up at Woodstock. Marko did. He turned him."

A grin blooms. "They do seem to like each other."

"You'd swear they were connected at the dick." She laughs loudly, and it echos across the beach.

She sobers. "And Laddie?" she softly asks.

He takes his time to answer, lips rubbing together at the absent of a smoke. "Dwayne," he says, in way of explanation. "He likes kids."

"A little brother," she mutters, staring at the waves.

"Yeah."

There's a silence. She does not remember being this comfortable in front of a Beast. How strange.

She remembers herself, and her spine straightens. He huffs at her.

"What about you?"

"What about me?" she asks, a little too quickly.

She sees his grin from the corner of her eye, white under white. The point of his fangs never goes unnoticed in her sight. "What about _your_ family?"

She bristles instantly, but her shoulders slowly relax. Fair is Fair.

She exhales loudly. "It's me and my mother," she speaks. She crosses her arms. "And my dog, Rufus. It's been me and her since I was little. And my Grandmother." Her quick smile turns down into a deep frown.

She stares at the sand. She counts the individual grains.

"What happened to her?" Even in this silence, his murmur is still as gruff as his bark.

Down boy.

"She had to be taken care of, near the end," she talks past the lump in her throat. "A nurse, lived with her. She thought there was something _wrong_ with her." She barks a laugh. "She was sent to a mental institution. She _died_ in a mental institution."

She grits her teeth, and meets eyes with him. His face is blank, and his lips press in a firm line. But he keeps eye contact.

"Humans are cruel," she spits. "And_ fucking_ stupid." She hugs herself, dipping her head down to face the sand, thankful for such thick hair to keep a curtain over her face.

"They are."

"And so are Beasts." Her voice is venomous behind her hair.

She can feel the vibration of his chuckle before she hears it. "My nickname?"

Her head lifts, and her eyes resemble broken glass.

"You tried to kill me."

The air is thick enough to cut.

There's a flash of fangs in his grin, in remembrance of that night. "I did."

"Why."

"I already told you." He is slightly irritated. He does not like to repeat himself.

"Because I caught your attention."

"That's generally how it goes."

She bares her teeth. He bares his, mockingly.

"Are you going to try again?" she speaks through grit teeth.

He seems to mull that over. "Yeah," he admits. "That's not a threat," he interrupts, as he can see the tirade bubbling at the surface.

"That's exactly what that is!"

"No," he denies. "I don't plan on killing you. I'd get bored afterward. It's rare to find someone like you." He grins. "I'm milking you for all you've got."

She stares.

Gods help her.

"I'm going to get gray hairs because of you," she mumbles, letting her head rest on her raised knees.

"You could always live forever," he offers.

"In my nightmares."

His belly-laugh manages to bring a smile from her.


	13. Chapter 13

"Have you made any friends?" asks Mrs. Clearwater, late one night as mother and daughter set the table for dinner.

"Besides Maria?"

"Yes!"

Franny pauses, the ceramic bowl still clutched in her hand. "Sort of," she answers, setting the bowl down, straightening it with the napkins.

Her mother nearly trills. "That's wonderful! Are they nice? Do you get along well?"

The questions make her smile. "They can be nice, they've been nice to me."_ Liar._ "It's comfortable."

"Good! You should invite them to dinner," Amelia announces, flouncing away from the table and back to the stove.

Francis gawks at her back.

"Tonight?" she sputters.

"Not tonight!" laughs her mother, coming back with the steaming pot in both hands. "But soon! I'd like to meet your friends, Maria was a sweet girl. And you're my daughter, I want to make sure they deserve you."

Deserve her? "That's aiming high," she mutters, taking her seat.

Her guts churns, from nervousness and from the unexpected sight of the vegetable soup poured into her bowl. But, the herbal smell puts her back into place, and she wields her spoon as a weapon towards her meal.

"I'd have to see their home first," she announces, as her mother takes her seat at the head of the table. Amelia raises a brow.

"You haven't seen it yet?"

"No, they've never offered. I haven't asked." How could she? She's been too paranoid to even mention it.

For good reason.

"Well, there's your reason to ask!" Now her mother's face turns sly, past her raised spoon. "Have you met any boys?"

She nearly chokes on her soup. Her ears burn.

"Yes."

"Cute boys?"

_Mother_.

"Yes," she speaks honestly. "But," she cuts in. "Not my type. They're very selfish." Dangerous. "Childish," she clarifies, and comprehension sparks in her mother's eyes.

Amelia frowns, put out. "That's how it usually is," she sighs. But the grin sparks once more. "But this is California, pumpkin. Las Vegas can never compete."

Franny's brows furrow. "What?"

"What happens here, stays here."

She sputters, and sticks her tongue out at her mother when she laughs.

* * *

"The Lost Boys?" she asks, later that night. A stack of the new shipment sits in her hands, and she holds them diligently as Maria picks and places them up on the shelves.

"Yep," Maria confirms.

"They have to be joking," Francis mutters. How fairytale. They side-step in unison to the next shelf.

"How long have they been here?"

"Who knows?" Maria slides the tapes into picturesque ease. "Longer than most. Longer than the Surf Nazis."

_Surf **Nazis**_?

"There's a rumor," she continues. "That it's a family thing. One Boy leaves, another takes his place. And it's always dudes, no chicks. Unless it'd be, like, a girlfriend or something." She shrugs. "It's kinda cool, for a biker gang."

"Very small for a biker gang."

"Well, yeah. Their looks make up for it, admit it."

"I admit it," she announces dryly. "But beauty often pairs with danger. They're dangerous people."

"No kidding!" Maria freely admits. They side-step to another shelf.

"By the way." Maria forgoes her put-away, shifting to face the golden girl. Her face is concerned, and a furrow knits between her brows.

"What happened between you and Buffy the Female Slayer the other night?"

There's a physical pain in her ribs from restraining her knee-jerk cackle. But, she sobers.

"He wanted a truce." She frowns. "He saw me as useful, and offered a dual partnership."

There's an awkward silence, where Maria stares her down.

"A dual partnership."

"I thought it was strange, too."

"Damn." Maria's eyebrows reach to her hairline. "Remind me to never get on your bad side, Franny. You're packing some heat now, girl."

Her grin is instant. "You're safe. I promise not to abuse this power." She raises her hand in mock-prayer.

The knit migrates to her brows. "It worries me still. I've spoken to him afterward, and he seems. _Eager_. I think I amuse him."

"That's creepy." The concern never leaves Maria's face. "Seriously, Franny. Be careful. This has bad vibes written all over it." Franny has a moment of surprise when Maria places her hand over her own, in a gesture of pure support. "If you ever need me, or anybody, all you need to do is say so. We got your back."

She's touched, and a lump forms in her throat. "Thank you, Maria," she says thickly.

The girl grins. "Anytime."


	14. Chapter 14

If there was anything in this world that Francis was not willing to do, it was to let a bunch of scud-sucking, cave rats into her home.

Especially in those outfits.

And those _manners_.

Granted, she has seen that they are able to restrain themselves, an example given when the Pack silently moves inside the store. They move as one, scoping the area or normally giving her boss the stink eye. It is unsettling.

Her vanity believes this to be an excuse, since she locks eyes with either David or Dwayne as the group passes her. The leader normally flashes his feral grin, and the Sentinel throws his stony glance her way in his examination. She always remembers to give her smile in return.

The other two never really keep still. If Paul is not slinking his way up the pant leg of a gorgeous female, or male, Marko makes sure to keep him in place, or from becoming too friendly. Maria simply preens from the attention. She doesn't even cast a frown her way when Francis breaks in between the two, using her own body as a block when their conversations start to get a little heated.

For safety reasons, of course.

She's caught sight of the Cherub from time to time, even going so far as to strike up a simple conversation or two. He likes TV, she finds, cartoons especially. She finds that the twinkle in his precious-moments eyes still strikes a nerve in her heart, a primal warning, but he has not made a move to raise any red flags. But, she keeps her distance, and the curl of his mouth signifies that he may know why.

Paul is surprisingly interesting, knowing his threads into the era of straight cocaine and hard rock n' roll. He's more than willing to give her an insight into his better day. His stories normally lift her eyebrows off into the night sky.

She's surprised he's survived this long.

He is amiable, friendly. But, undoubtedly _male_. She has forgone trying to gain his attention when she wears anything with a low neck.

As for the youngest, Laddie is quiet.

He likes to draw, he likes to watch the sky. He likes the beach.

She has taken him to the beach, with Dwayne as the ever-present chaperone, and she has taught him how to dig for hermit crabs in the sand. She has pointed out constellations and planets in the stars, and the spirits attached to them.

He likes Apollo, the warrior of the Sun, and draws picture upon picture of a strong, Godlike figure, with curly red hair and yellow eyes, neatly depicted with his crayons.

They're normally given to her as gifts.

She's running out of space along her bedroom walls.

"They like you," David tells her one night, the duo resting in that same beach bench, staring out into the shore as the waves mold under the bright moon.

She finds herself smiling, and turns to face him directly. "I'm flattered," she admits, and the corners of his mouth quirk up into that lazy smile.

She still won't let them into her house.

* * *

"Def Leppard," Franny drawls, leaning her elbows on the store's counter. Her eyes droop. Subtracting the two stoners gawking at the TVs in the corner, again, Max's Video Store is about as dead as a coffin nail. She's expecting to see a tumbleweed pass by.

The soft croon of the band floats out of the speakers on the corners of the ceiling, and Franny's only entertainment is to watch Maria waltz with the broom, swinging and singing along.

"Love bites," she sings, in a high soprano. Franny swore she would be an alto. "Love bleeds!" She drops to her knees dramatically, reaching out towards her in a desperate motion. "It's bringin' me to my knees!"

Francis frowns heavily. Maria ignores her. "Love lives."

"This is a bummer," Franny mutters, sinking her head in her arms.

"Love dies!"

"Why do we have this?" she speaks aloud.

"No idea!" Maria picks herself off the floor, sticking the broom between her legs and pretending to fly away into the back room.

Franny watches her.

"Aw shit!"

She picks her head up. "What?"

"**_Do you wanna get rocked?_**"

A cackle flies out of her mouth. Maria peeks her head from the backroom, and her grin matches her own. She throws the broom to the redhead.

Franny deftly catches it.

By the time Max comes back, both females are pressed back to back, Franny using the end of the broom as a microphone as both belt out the song off-key.

"Ladies!" He claps his hands twice. "Ladies. There's no one here, you can go home now. Or, hang out. Whatever you like. But." He interrupts the cheer, from Maria.

"If you're going to the Boardwalk, be careful. And bring me funnel cake if you do."

Maria makes sure to smack a wet kiss on the man's cheek as she leaves. Franny settles with a friendly pat on the arm.

"Crazy kids."

"I'm getting you a jacket," announces Maria, as she nearly dances away from the store.

Franny snorts, following her at a calmer pace. "I already have a jacket."

"That's a sweater." She threads her arm with the redhead's, grinning like a cat. "But you need a leather jacket."

"A leather jacket?" She frowns.

"Yeah! Franny, you hang with the most popular biker gang in the area, you need something to blend in." She tugs her towards the Boardwalk. Francis is used to the shove of the crowd by now, thank the Gods and Goddesses.

"But I don't want to blend in. That's boring."

"Then don't! You can personalize it!" Maria keeps her chipper grin, nearly bouncing on the balls of her feet. "You're gonna look so cool!"

All Franny can do is grin, letting herself be pulled once again.

Why not?

* * *

"It's too big," she mutters, staring at her lanky form in the full-body mirror. The black leather hangs off her in an unseemly manner.

Maria peeks her head from over her shoulder, still grinning into the reflection. "It's perfect."

"Maria, it's too big."

"It's supposed to be like that."

Franny casts a look over her shoulder, one eyebrow cocked.

"Can I get a size smaller?"

"Can we get a size smaller?!" shouts Maria to the store clerk.

There's a quick swap, and some choice muttering from the disgruntled clerk, before Franny shifts her arms inside the form-fitting, brand-new leather jacket.

She adjusts it to hug against her arms. "I like it," she finally murmurs, smiling at her reflection. Maria whoops from her seat. "We'll take it!"

"How much?" Franny politely asks.

And nearly faints from the hefty price.

"Don't think about that," Maria interjects quickly, slipping behind Francis to neatly push her out of the store. "Leave this to me. Consider it a present." Franny can't get a word in edgewise before she's finally pushed out the door.

And she's left to stand in the open with her new jacket.

She runs her palms over the smooth leather, memorizing the creases and zippers. Her pockets are zipper-free, and she slides her hands inside easily. The smile blooms on her face.

She walks.

She strides.

She stumbles when the solid weight rams itself into her legs.

"Franny!" comes the high yell.

"Laddie!" she calls back, bringing the boy from his leg-hug into her arms, hugging him tightly until his legs kick at the air in a giggling fit. She blows a raspberry in his face, before pulling him back in, resting his weight on her hip.

She grins. "Hi."

"Hi!" he grins back. He pats her cheek.

"Are you here by yourself?"

"Yep!" He pats her other cheek.

"Where are your brothers?"

"At the beach." He presses both hands on her cheeks, squishing them together to give her fishlips. He giggles. "Dwayne said they were getting something to eat."

Oh.

She crosses her eyes, making him laugh. He moves his hands from her face to play with her hair, threading his fingers through her curls.

"Are you hungry?" she asks him.

"Yeah!"

She buys him two corndogs, and a large basket of curly fries. It sits between them on the small picnic bench.

"How old are you?" he asks, bits of the dog escaping his mouth.

She smiles. "I'm old." She steals a fry.

"You're not old."

"I am. I just look young."

"You look pretty," he corrects.

She grins. "_You're_ pretty."

"Nuh-uh. I'm hot."

"Handsome," she corrects quickly. She's going to strangle whoever put that word in his mouth.

Three guesses say Paul.

Thankfully, it is not Paul who visits the table first.

Dwayne slides into his seat, on the right-hand side of Laddie. The two exchange smiles, as custom, whereas Laddie's smile is bigger. He bites down into his corn dog.

"He was hungry," she speaks, in way of explanation. Dwayne nods. There's a healthy glow to his skin, now a golden tan instead of a pale shade. Even his eyes have a content spark in them.

She catches herself staring. She takes another fry.

They sit in companionable silence.

Dwayne is Dwayne. Silent and sturdy. Fiercely loyal, and twice as protective.

Nearly as fascinating as David.

She has not had the chance to indulge the Sentinel into a conversation, especially a lengthy one. They exchange pleasantries from time to time, flashing smiles at each other when she comes to play with Laddie. She smiles, he normally nods or gives a smirk.

She pops a fry in her mouth. "Dwayne," she speaks over it.

His arms rest on the table, head turned towards a group of teenagers dawdling near the rollercoaster. His eyes switch to her face at his name.

"How old are you?"

"Old," he says simply.

"_Really_ old," says Laddie, nodding twice. The slow smile makes it's guest appearance on Dwayne's face. He brings himself back to the table. "Older than you."

"Nuh uh."

"Yeah huh." He gently nudges his elbow against Laddie's side.

Laddie nudges back.

Dwayne lightly shoves him.

Laddie shoves him harder.

Dwayne grabs him, bringing the squealing child in a loose head-lock to ruffle his hair. Laddie screams happily, kicking his feet and batting his tiny fists on Dwayne's arm.

Franny is blinded by the wattage of Dwayne's grin.

It blooms her own.


	15. Chapter 15

"Feeling better?"

An acrid exhale of a smoke cloud puffs straight into her nostrils. "Absolutely."

Franny brings a hand over her nose, glaring hotly at the smug creature.

In order, the seating arrangements start at David, herself, and Paul, then Marko, Laddie, and Dwayne. Paul has already demolished most of the fry basket, and Dwayne has challenged Laddie to a dual, wielding the sticks from the corndogs as weapons. Marko holds his head in his hands, absently watching the fight, while David leans back in his seat, a freshly-lit cancer stick held between his lips.

"Why do you smoke?" she mutters, scrunching her nose in distaste as he inhales.

Twin clouds bloom out his nose. "Because I can."

"It stinks."

"So does weed."

"Weed is healthy."

"Really," he mutters.

"Weed is healthy?" pipes up Paul, through a mouthful of fries. He leans against Franny's shoulder, eyes opened wide.

"Medicinal," she corrects. "It's known to be. I thought you'd know that already."

"Man, I don't know shit about that," he drawls, wiping his mouth. "It makes me feel good, so it_ is_ good." He grins.

She can feel the burn of David's smirk on the side of her face.

"You look different," he states, leaning forward to rest his arms on the table. He speaks past the cigarette, held at the corner of his mouth. "New haircut?"

It's so terribly cliché, she can't resist a snort. "No." She cocks a brow.

"I know!" Paul pinches the weathered edge of her jacket between thumb and forefinger. "You got a jacket."

"I got a jacket."

"Are you trying to look like us?" David drawls. She makes a face.

"Not really. It was a gift." She makes a mental note to repay her later. "To '_blend in_'_._" She air-quotes.

"Why would you want to blend in?" asks Marko, his attention directed to the conversation. The corndog-stick dual still wages on, with Dwayne starting to fall back.

"That's what I said," she mumbles. She rests an elbow on the table, bringing her hand up to hold her face. "I've tried it before. It never works." She side-eyes the blond Beast at her side.

He grins.

"You could customize it," offers Marko. His grin reminds her more of a feline every night.

"I wouldn't know where to start," she admits, holding her arms out for examination. A piece of clothing as a blank canvas, that's never been thought of before.

"Start small," he offers helpfully. "Patches and bangles. Maybe some bells. Or stickers."

"Stickers don't stay," says Paul. "They peel off."

"Not if you use glue."

"Why would you use glue on a sticker, man, that's a waste."

"Not if it's a good sticker."

Paul pauses. "Yeah," he admits.

Franny questions the mental ability of these creatures almost daily, but they do give her some good ideas.

Paul points a fry-greased finger in her face. "You should come home with us."

Her heart leaps to her throat.

He must have seen the blood drain from her face, since he waves his hand to wave away her worry. "Relax, man, we ain't gonna hurt you! Not unless you dig that." His grin turns feral. She bares her teeth at him.

"What Paul's trying to say," David speaks up, narrowing his eyes in warning. Paul has the decency to look sheepish, and backs off. "We're inviting you into our home."

Oh.

What luck.

"I'm invited."

"You're invited," he confirms. He reaches for the butt end of his smoke, taking a quick drag before flicking the butt away.

"I accept," she says, waving away the cloud of his exhale.

There's a cheer, kicked off from Laddie, and as winner of the dual, he slips out of his seat, taking the first run towards the bikes.

There's a flash of a grin on Dwayne's face before he jumps off after him.

Paul snatches the fry basket before getting up, munching at the cold leftovers. Marko flashes a smile her way before getting up after him.

"They _do_ like me," she mutters, standing up herself.

"I told you," David says simply. He walks in front of her, leading the way.

She follows.

A part of her feels like a lamb being brought to slaughter.

Again.

She needs to rethink better metaphors.

"Where is your home?" she asks David's back.

"Near Hudson's Bluff," he answers.

"The lighthouse?" she asks.

"Not exactly. It's in the area."

His vague answer does nothing for her nerves.

"Relax." She meets his eyes over his shoulder. Calm and cold, as they always are.

He cocks a brow at her. "Scared?"

"Never."

He smiles.

Of course, she ends up behind him on his bike. She counts this as not one, but two significant experiences.

Her first time on a motorcycle, and her first time on a motorcycle with a vampire.

She keeps her hands set chastely on his hips at first, but the quick roar of the engine shoots her forward in fright, wrapping her arms around his torso tight enough to block his air supply.

She can feel the vibrations of his laugh before she hears it. She grunts in reply.

Her arms turn vice-like when they jerk forward in motion.

She can feel her nine lives flapping in the breeze as her hair nearly rips off her head at his speed. She's very thankful for the thick hide of her jacket to protect her bare arms.

She keeps her face pressed against his back, nearly smothering herself and not caring. She breathes in quick inhales, catching the faint odor underneath his clothing.

He stinks of old blood and smoke.

She refrains from inhaling too deeply.

The amulets that have stayed on her person since the first night press cold rings against her flesh. Reminders.

She relaxes against David's back, tightening her knees against the hard edge of the motorcycle. They are a comfort, and remind her of Home.

She takes a chance. She lifts her head.

The night is warm, so the breeze is absent of a sharp breeze. It blows her hair completely away from her face, and her eyelids forcibly peel back before she remembers to squint.

The landscape is a blur, trees and dirt and gravel zipping past the bike quicker than she can point out. Her blood runs cold, and her heart pounds against her ribcage like a rapid drumbeat.

"Relax!" She starts, tightening her hold once more.

"What?" she shouts.

"Relax!" David repeats. They both bounce along with the bike as they tread gravel. "You're safe!"

"I'm not safe!" she argues. How could she be safe like _this_?

"Yes, you are! Nothing's gonna happen to you!" She can't see the front of his face, but the edge of his cheek creases upward. He's probably grinning up a storm. "Enjoy the ride!"

He's out of his mind.

Her arms are a vice around his middle.

* * *

The ride is longer than she'd like.

And her hair is damp from the crisp fog the group decided to roll past, so she is extra thankful for the thicker jacket on her smaller frame.

The ride ends on the edge of the coast, she notices, in the parking space of what looks like an old walkway. Another wooden path.

An older wooden path, judging by the crooked and water-soaked boards.

"End of the line." David's low timber brings her back. She slides off the back of the bike, only slipping once and using his shoulder for support. His smile is mocking as he gracefully dismounts. She casts a terrible face his way.

The roar in the distance signals that the others are not far. She frowns. "You're faster."

"You sound surprised." He makes his way down the walkway. She jogs to keep up. The moon brings a sheen to the wooden boards, and the crash of the waves on her side puts a delicate step to her walk. She did not come this far to slip and die of a cracked skull. She keeps a steady hand on the railing.

The end of the walkway leads to a caged-in opening of a cave.

Now, she pauses.

Rusted metal fencing keeps the opening untouched, save for the unhinged door. Alarms fire in her brain, as she reads the "**WARNING**" and "**DO NOT ENTER**" signs planted against the fence. The mouth of the cave is jagged and broken in, the erosion from the salt water of the sea giving the mouth fanged teeth.

How fitting.

She slips past the fence, gingerly poking her head inside the cave, placing a steady hand on one of the less-pointed edges.

There's a downward slope, and she resorts to skidding on her heels, kicking up sand and landing on her rear.

She's inside.

She's flabbergasted.

It looks like the end result of adults putting together a clubhouse inside a cave, after an earthquake.

She can see the basic foundations, the edges of stone and mortar, wooden lining of doorways and broken tile along the floor, covered with a variety of colorful, faded carpets. But there are added components.

A beaten couch over here, a kitchen counter with a rusted fridge over there, a grouping of ripped bean bags in the corner. At certain corners, there are iron barrels sunk into the floor, welded against the tiles. They remind her of the barrels her grandmother used to burn garbage.

There's a nook in the back, from what she can see, that holds a small bed, layered with thick comforters and stuffed animals, half-hidden behind a sun-kissed curtain. For Laddie?

In the middle of it all, are the remains of an old fountain, decorated with melted candle wax and nautical odds and ends, dried starfish and the bones of stray animals tied above it to form a sort of sea-side dream catcher.

Huh.

"It's big," she announces, shoving her hands inside her jacket's pockets. She steps inside, head craned back, examining the area to her leisure.

"You like it?" David's voice comes from one of the back corners.

"I like it," she answers, taking a seat on the edge of the fountain. And meets face to face with a wheelchair.

"Are you crippled?" she asks, as he slips back into her view. And takes his seat on the wheelchair, lounging against it like a King on his throne.

His face alone is worth asking. "No," he says slowly, cocking a brow.

"Then why a wheelchair?"

"It's comfortable," he says simply, crossing one leg over the other. "And easy to move."

War whoops drown out whatever questions she had left, and it's startling. She shifts in her seat to see Dwayne, carrying a piece of driftwood that's been lit into a torch. The use becomes known as it's used to light a fire in the barrel at the entrance. He moves to set a fire in each barrel, giving better light to the area. She blinks to adjust her eyes from the darkness.

Paul and Laddie swing hand in hand, cackling like little kids as Marko takes up the rear, raising a hand and a smile. Her hand comes up in response.

There's a flapping sound above her, and she tilts to see a near legion of pigeons, fluffing themselves and huddling against each other along the beams holding the 'roof' together.

"How long has this place been here?" she asks.

"A little over eighty years," answers David. He rests his cheek against a loose fist. "Used to be the hottest resort in Santa Carla. Until the big one cracked open this place in 1906."

An earthquake.

Then her assumption wasn't entirely untrue.

"You were there?" she asks.

She see he's not used to being asked that, since his silence and high brows give her all that she needs. She grins.

He huffs. "The place got flattened," he continues. "So we moved in. One man's trash is another man's treasure."

"Amen, brother." Paul leaps onto the fountain, digging into his pockets. She looks over her shoulder to see the wrapped paper of a joint in his hands, and a matchbox. She cocks a brow and smirks. Typical. "Grab the rockbox, little man."

"Right!" Laddie disappears behind the bright curtain in the small nook, reappearing momentarily and cradling a boombox in both arms as if it was the Holy Grail.

There's a switch of the match and a soft inhale, before Paul's hand is in her face, holding the lit stick between thumb and forefinger. She takes it with her thanks. He pats her head, leaping off the fountain for the boombox.

She refrains from leaping head-first into the foul-smelling herb, taking a small hit before passing it to David. He takes it with a smirk, inhaling a much larger amount. She blows smoke rings into his face, he blows a mushroom cloud into hers.

"Marko!" he calls, giving the joint back to Paul as he passes. The lull of Pink Floyd floats from the boombox, and relaxes her rigid spine. "Food. _Not_ Chinese."

There's a guffaw from both Paul and Marko as the latter moves to obey, scattering the birds that had perched on his shoulders. There's a small tumble of sand as he climbs out of the cave and is gone.

There's a silence, filled in only from the croons of the boombox as the joint passes from Paul, to Franny, to David, Dwayne politely refusing as he works on what looks like a bike. A normal bike, bicycle, with an animal tail hanging from each handlebar. The youngest keeps to himself, huddled intently over his drawings from his seat on the ragged couch, surrounded by a ring of broken crayons.

Franny entertains herself by staring at the birds above, now and then watching the clouds of smoke that rise up from the other two. Her nerves have melted completely, to the extent that she's actually _comfortable_.

A nagging feeling tells her that she could never be comfortable in this situation, with where she is and who she's with.

But, whether it be her confidence, or the weed, she relaxes in her seat, ignoring the stone lip of the fountain digging into her legs.

And she watches the birds, allowing Floyd to croon her into a sense of peace.

How refreshing.


	16. Chapter 16

And it's settled.

The group solidifies itself, making Franny one of it's members. As much as it could without the Initiation.

She was, and still is, adamant on remaining _human_, and her and David have verbally fought on more than one occasion on the tender subject.

He is aware of her reasoning, but still insists that she join the coven. He believes that her strength would ensure the safety of the Coven, as much as it would for her own Family. He has gone so far as to threaten not just her safety, but her mother's safety. Coupled with his male pride, the argument is enough to turn her anger into acid and bile.

His hair nearly goes up in flames when she barks in his face, spittle flying from her bared teeth as she explains that she is more than capable of taking care of herself, and her mother, and that if anyone were to try anything, they would be lucky to find the scorch mark their bones would leave on the tiled floor.

His retaliation is physical.

Later, she finds it amusing that her first sight of his hands without his gloves would be when they were hooked into claws and reaching for her face. She managed to jerk back at the right moment, but not enough to spare her chain of protective amulets. The chain breaks from the rough snag, and they fly off her neck.

The bone-deep burn that runs ragged across his palm from the multiple incantations on the metal should be revenge enough.

But, in her mind, all she sees are her amulets, passed down from her mother, from her mother and her mother, falling into the gritty sand and becoming dirty. Becoming _soiled_.

By a **_Beast_**.

She has not spoken to him since, much less acknowledged his existence.

This was two weeks ago.

If the others had any inclination of the fight, and she knows they do, they make no mention of it. She finds little plastic baggies of herb in her locker at work, she waves when she catches Marko's eyes in the crowds of the Boardwalk, her and Dwayne still take Laddie to the beach.

They make no comment on the fight. She hears no word of David, nor sees him on the Boardwalk, or on the bench they had shared on the beach. Very rarely she makes her path enter the bar, but the white-blond head of the Beast is absent from her sight.

And a hollow feeling grows in her belly and in her throat.

But, she swallows it down when it decides to make itself known.

She distracts herself with hobbies of painting and sewing, and dabbles with newer branches of her craft.

And she moves on.

* * *

It's on a Tuesday when her day turns to utter shit in mere moments.

In order, she has woken up three hours late, banged her head on the shower spit and nearly snapped it off, started her monthly flow onto her favorite pair of panties, spilled hot coffee in her lap, pulled both calf muscles while taking Rufus for a walk, and has tripped onto gravel and bloodied and bruised both knees on her morning jog.

Naturally, Franny's chipper mood has dimmed considerably as she steps inside Max's Video Store for her nightly shift.

"Hi, Franny!" calls Max, happy to see his favorite employee. She pulls her face up into a smile, despite the exhausted creases settled in the corners of her eyes. She lifts her hand in a half-wave, taking long strides into the backroom, disappearing quickly.

Max stares after her, both brows raised under his thick glasses. He shares a glance with Maria. Maria leaves her spot from the counter wordlessly, slipping past it to follow the girl.

"Franny?"

Francis hears the call, but she does not answer. She is at the table, her head resting against her folded arm, her other wrapped tightly around her cramping middle. She had taken not one, not two, but four aspirin before she left the house, and they had not had the chance to slip into her system. She had foolishly taken them on an empty stomach, and she is prepared to feel nauseous very soon.

_Stupid_ girl.

Her loose jeans and her baby-blue jacket make their first appearance since she arrived to Santa Carla. Her hair is unkempt, and sloppily tied away from her face. She grunts, and finally lifts her head, revealing a pale face, enhancing the dark circles under her eyes. She smiles up at Maria when she's spotted.

"Girl, you look like shit."

And that smile immediately dips into a frown.

"What's wrong?"

She rubs her face harshly. "Bad day," she says simply.

Maria gives a sympathetic grimace. "Why didn't you call off?"

"I call off too much."

"You've called off twice since you've worked here. That's, what, three months now?" Maria takes the unoccupied seat across the table. She places both hands on Franny's.

"I don't want Max to think I'm a bad worker," she mumbles, gently squeezing Maria's hands.

Maria says nothing, causing Franny to look into her face. Her lips are pursed, and a single brow is raised. Her eyes flick to the wall. Franny follows her line of sight.

The breakroom is adjacent to Max's office, and the door resembles all those glass screens you see in detective movies. The name "Max" is painted on the glass in bold, black letters. Above the door, is a picture frame.

Franny's smiling face hangs above the words, "_Employee of the Month_," in gold-trimmed lettering.

"Alright, you have a point."

Maria grins, and pats her hand. "Go home, Miss Francis. I'll tell Max for you."

"I don't know what I'd do without you," she speaks, her smile nearly bringing out the sun, despite the sickly tone of her features.

"You'd go home and watch sappy romance movies, and gain ten pounds worth of sweets." Maria's voice follows her out of the room.

And she's left alone.

She exhales, soft and slow, letting her spine relax and her shoulders slump forward. She slowly rubs her face with both hands.

Using the back of the chair as support, she stands up.

Her stomach snarls like it's wounded.

She pats her clothed belly, shuffling out of the breakroom.

She shudders when a brisk wind wraps itself around her bared neck. She brings her jacket tight around her.

Max meets her at the door, concern etching deep lines on his face. "Maria filled me in," he says, as way of explanation. He frowns slightly. "Are you going to be okay?"

She waves away his concern with a smile. "I'll be okay, Max. Life hasn't been too nice today, I'll be fine by tomorrow. I promise."

He frowns again. "If you say so, Franny. Don't hesitate to call off if you don't feel right tomorrow, okay? I wouldn't want to lose you."

His concern is uplifting, and she manages a grin. "I'll be okay. I'll see you later." She reaches behind him to wave to Maria, and moves out of the shop.

The first breeze of the warm night already lifts her mood out of the muck.

She takes a needed lungful.

She slips her hands into her sweater, and starts to walk.

The perfume of the concession stand is what attracts her first.

A moment later, she walks away with a basket of fries, drizzled with cheese and bacon bits.

Terribly unhealthy, and terribly messy, but very much worth it.

And she deserves a treat.

She munches on them idly as she walks, not keeping a destination in mind.

Now and then she feels the wisp of the others, like eyes at the back of her neck. It's an odd, and unsettling sensation, but not enough to raise her hackles. They slip past the crowds, sometimes as a group, sometimes as single entities.

This is not uncommon to her anymore.

Her neck feels bare, naked now that her chain has gone.

She sneers, chucking most of her fries in the garbage.

Her appetite is gone. Her stomach bubbles angrily.

The boardwalk ends, and her sandals scrape against the soft sand. She pauses to remove them, silently padding along to the shore.

The waves are smooth tonight, calm and quiet. The water is warm when it slips along her toes, and she follows the trail of the wave, watching her feet sink into the wet sand.

What a fucking _mess_ she's made.

In retrospect, she can't blame him for being paranoid. Or concerned.

But the rotten bastard attacked her.

After she had provoked him.

She rubs her face. She keeps walking.

She muses that she will have to apologize, sooner or later. Considering the circumstances, she should be grateful that she's not dead.

Like a dried husk in the sand.

There's a flicker of light in the corner of her vision, and her body breaks out in a cold sweat in sheer panic. Her spine snaps ramrod straight.

She blinks, and the flicker of light turns into a campfire, reduced to a small flame from the distance alone.

She grabs the spot over her heart, and bares her teeth at the speck of light.

Her heart pounds against her hand. She makes a face.

Damn the fire.

She walks toward it.

For curiosity's sake.

"Franny!" comes the loud call, making her start. The fire is a bonfire, surrounded by flower-crown toting folks, passing a bottle of bourbon around the ring and stinking of weed and incense. Part of her isn't surprised when Paul rises from the ring, a toothy grin beaming below bloodshot eyes.

She stares at him.

He waves frantically, making motions for her to come join them.

She visibly mulls it over.

"Come on, man!"

She joins them.

Paul grins like a little kid, patting the sand beside him. She takes the offered seat, setting her sandals down and crossing her legs under her. She's instantly passed the bottle of bourbon. She takes a needed drink, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand and passing it to Paul.

He swallows a mouthful, then another. "How you been, girl?"

She makes a face. "I've been better." She reaches behind her head to shake her hair loose. She sighs heavily.

He passes the bottle along. "You still upset?"

She grimaces. "Not exactly."

She leans back, balancing her weight on her hands. "I can understand where he's coming from," she admits, letting the dancing flames lull her into a docile state. Her heart keeps it's steady rhythm, now that she's a safe distance away to only feel the warmth of the fire. "But this has been setting my teeth on edge. Pun not intended," she quips. She sighs again, frowning at the flames.

"It's been a bad time all around, Paul."

He pats her head. "It'll pass," he reassures. He mimics her stance, letting his legs stretch forward, the edges of the fire barely licking the soles of his feet. "They always do."

"I hope you're right," she murmurs. Her eyes slip closed.

There's a lull. Once again broken by music, she muses, as she hears the hollow sound of an acoustic being experimentally plucked, before a solid song strums along.

This one is familiar. "Is he playing Ripple?" she mutters.

"Probably."

_Hippies_.

"Typical."

"Don't knock Grateful Dead, man. It ain't too bad."

"You don't seem the type to walk with mellow folk, Paul."

"I don't walk with the mellow folk, I smoke with them. Hippies always get the good shit. And they got great stories, they're fuckin' nuts."

An overpowering stench invades her nostrils.

She opens her eyes to Paul's hand in her face, a smoking joint between his fingers.

She smirks. She takes the offered hit. She nearly coughs as it fills her lungs.

She passes it, and lays on her back in the soft sand, staring up at the night sky and exhaling a mushroom cloud of smoke to her Gods and Goddesses.

She thinks of her mother.

She thinks of her Grandmother.

If her Grandmother was still alive, she would whack Franny upside her head and tell her to snatch these boys by their smallparts and make them cry for their whore mammies. Nothing can put Clearwater women down, she would say, especially not a filthy Beast!

She swallows thickly.

She stares up into the sky.

"Why me?" she mutters, plotting to see if she can lift her soul up into that starry sky. The ring has already started to sing along to the guitar-plucker, and it's a soothing melody.

"Because David likes you." Paul's face comes into her view.

She frowns at him. "He doesn't like me."

He guffaws. "Girl, how else you think you're still here?"

"He doesn't act like it."

"Brother doesn't do feelings too much. He thinks they make him look weak, and we can't have David lookin' like a pussy in front of his boys." He sticks his tongue out.

"He called me his '_entertainment_'." She still sneers at the word. It goes against her pride to be referred as something so lowly.

"You kinda are, girl. You're our entertainment, too!" He waves his hand in surrender at her fierce look. "In a good way! You make the new shit interesting. That's not all bad, right?"

She pauses.

She frowns.

No, she thinks. It's not all bad.

It's almost flattering.

"Franny."

"What?"

"You smell _good_."

"Don't even think about it."


	17. Chapter 17

It is then, when the hours roll by and the fire starts to grow dim, that Franny is relaxed enough to release her weakest moment.

"I've been having nightmares."

Now, at this point, she has lost count on the amount of inhales she's taken from the half dozen blunts the ring has passed around. All she's seen and smelled is a haze of skunk cloud, smacking with the aftertaste of the flavored paper it was rolled into. Grape, lemon, even cake keeps a residue on her chapped lips and tongue, and she finds herself swaying with the rest when the guitar player strums up a new song, all from the greatest hits of Grateful Dead.

She's acutely reminded of college.

Her comment brings the instant attention of Paul, who keeps to himself as the group brays along with their songs, nursing the rest of his blunt alone. "Yeah?"

She nods.

Her head feels too heavy for her neck.

"I normally do," she reveals. "But they've never been this bad. Or this frequent." Her lips purse together in a frown. "I'm not sure what it means."

"What are they about?" He offers her the joint.

She takes it, holding it between thumb and forefinger. "Fire." She inhales, watching the end burn brightly. "Dying by fire." She passes it back, letting the smoke wisp out her nose.

Paul's eyebrows nearly reach his frazzled hair. "Damn, girl." He takes his hit. "That's some twisted shit."

She barks a laugh. "I know." She runs her hands through her hair, scratching at her scalp. "They're detailed." She frowns again, letting her hands fall into the sand.

"They've never been this bad before."

"You know what started it?"

She shakes her head in the negative.

Then, she pauses. "You." She's startled by the erupting cough at her side, mushroom clouds wafting from Paul's nose and mouth.

"Me?!" he exclaims.

"Not just you," she explains, waving away the cloud as they migrate to her side. "You. The group." She pulls her legs closer, wrapping her arms around them and resting her chin on her raised knees.

"I think it's from a supernatural spike. I haven't been in the presence of a grouping like this since I was a child." She purses her lips. "It's a theory, anyway."

Paul blinks. He scratches his hair. "I ain't high enough for this, Franny." He grins sheepishly.

She snickers. "Sorry." Realizing that the group has dimmed on the effects of sound, she looks up, finding most of the hippies absent or packing up, kicking sand into the fire to smother it out.

She looks up at the stars. The twinkle their greeting. "It's getting late." She's starting to get cold. She brings her sweater tighter around her.

Paul pinches the lit end of the joint out with his fingers. "You want me to take you home?"

"If that wouldn't be too much."

"Naw." He stands up, shaking the sand from his clothes. He offers her both hands, which she gladly takes to settle her footing. "You feelin' better?"

The world spins on it's heel, and she takes another step to the side to balance herself. She rubs her face.

Does she feel better?

"Yes," she admits. The looming sense of guilt and trepidation has released it's clawed grip from her shoulders, and she can breathe easy again.

She's okay.

"Thank you," she speaks, as she follows him to his bike.

He looks over his shoulder at her, an amused and confused expression on his unshaven face. "For what?"

"This." She gestures with both hands, spread wide and waving to the glowing embers of the bonfire. "For letting me vent."

He snorts, sliding up next to her and wrapping an arm around her shoulders.

She nearly flinches from the unexpected touch.

"Ain't nothin', girl." He squeezes her shoulder in a comforting gesture, grinning happily. "You're one of us. Means you're family."

Family.

She smiles back.

* * *

She manages not to claw his sides in fear from her second time on a motorcycle, even though she does keep a good grip around his waist as he flies. He's not as fast as David, but the speed alone whips her hair from her face and yanks her sweater from her small frame.

She keeps her head dipped low, pressing her cheek against his back and slipping her eyes closed. She feels a pat on her clasped hands when she finally relaxes.

She smiles.

This night didn't turn out nearly as bad as she assumed.

Yes, she stinks of weed, and smoke. Her throat burns from the alcohol and inhaling the fumes of the bonfire, and she's exhausted beyond reason.

Her knees still burn from their tumble earlier this morning, and her cramps still flare up now and then in a vicious squeeze.

But, she had fun.

And a heavy weight has been lifted.

She pats her hand against Paul's waist. Not a Beast.

There is hope for these creatures yet.

The heavy vibrations of the motorcycle just about put her to sleep, that she almost misses the feeling of the vehicle slowing down.

There's another pat on her hand. "Franny."

She opens her eyes. She removes her face from Paul's back and sits up.

The porch light of her home shines in her eyes.

She grins. "You found it."

"Yep." His grin matches hers. "I'm good with directions." He lets her get off first, using his shoulder as support.

She regains her footing. "Thank you, again." She slips her hands in her sweater pockets. "You helped out a lot, Paul."

He waves her thanks away. "Ain't nothin', Franny." His face slips into seriousness. "Don't give up on David. He's a dick, but the man's gotta be."

She purses her lips together. She nods. "Can you pass a message?"

"Sure."

"Tell him I'm ready to talk when he is." She nods again.

"Can do." He gives a two-fingered salute, and a wink. She steps back when he jump-starts the bike, and watches as he slowly fades into the distance.

She inhales, then exhales, letting her spine relax and her shoulders slump.

She remembers to take the spare key under the mat before going inside.


End file.
